


Autumn Closing In

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Come Eating, Coming Untouched, Curtain Fic, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, POV Dean, Post-Episode: s11e23 Alpha and Omega, Rimming, Schmoop, Shower Sex, Soulmates, Wincest - Freeform, soulbond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21776179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: Dean didn’t dare to dream he’d walk away from Amara in one piece, and now that he has, he’s ready to call it quits where hunting is concerned. No more danger, no more saying goodbye to his brother. Just him and Sam settled down somewhere. Safe.But when he returns to the bunker, things are not how he left them. Sam has been shot, and after Dean takes care of the people responsible, he and Cas are left to deal with the consequences. The bullet in Sam’s shoulder is enchanted, and the only way they can break the spell is using complicated, soul-powered magic that will have long lasting side-effects.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 61
Kudos: 568





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> To say this has been a long time coming, well. I truly did start writing this immediately after the S11 finale four years ago. I got probably 75% of the way through it and then I don't know. It fell to the wayside, and then life took a whole bunch of turns. ANYWAY. This year I wanted to try to get back to things by participating in the Big Bang and I have never stopped loving this fic. I figured I was mostly done, I could wrap it up in time. 
> 
> Life had other plans. Luckily my artist is none other than my very, very dear friend Andy (aka merakieros). She is so patient and forgiving and she is still hoping to make art for this in her own time as well. 
> 
> With her encouragement -- and the encouragement of my usual host of dear, dear friends -- I have FINALLY finished this fic. I cannot WAIT for y'all to read it. 
> 
> Beta by the always wonderful Jen (aka gluedwithgold). Thank you darling <3 
> 
> Title from Bob Seger's _Night Moves_ because, well... you know.
> 
> *Also, I fudged Castiel a little bit. I most enjoyed his angel self with defined powers – healing, wings, etc. So without explanation or fitting into the proper/current angel canon, I gave those back. My fic my rules? *shrugs* :P
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter One** \---

When the smoke clears, the Darkness and Chuck disappear, and the sun is restored, Dean can feel it. It’s a kind of inescapable certainty settling deep in his bones; he is _done_ walking away from Sam. 

For good.

Perhaps as sudden and unexpected as this peaceful resolution, Dean has an epiphany. Whatever is going on out there, he is simply done wanting to know about it. They have saved the world half a dozen times over, and if that’s not enough to earn them a shot at the quiet life, then Dean doesn’t know what ever could. All he wants to do is find someplace safe with Sam to start fresh and live the life he knows they both want but never believed they deserved.

Maybe it was the final goodbye he never wanted to say, maybe it was the one close call too many, maybe it’s because he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since they met Jesse and Cesar and it seemed like – _just maybe_ – it could happen, even for a couple of weathered hunters like them, or maybe it was that after everything it looked like even Chuck and Amara were off to explore the possibility of happily ever after, so why can’t they, too – it doesn’t even matter. Something finally clicked into place, some missing piece or errant cog that had previously refused to turn, and Dean knows now, beyond the shadow of any doubt, what has to be next for them. 

He spends the entire drive back to Lebanon thinking of what to say to Sam about it. He’s not quite sure how much convincing his brother will need, especially when doing this for real would mean leaving his precious library, but he knows Sam will come around. If Dean is going, Sam is coming, too. It makes Dean’s mouth quirk up in a wry smile, that he can think and know that so absolutely, when nearly twenty years ago now Sam was running away. But they aren’t the same as they were then, and they stopped running from each other a long time ago. If Dean knows anything for sure, it’s that neither of them has interest in a life without the other. 

Dean’s mind wanders as he rolls down back roads in the early morning light, not far from home now. He can’t wait to see the stunned look on his baby brother’s face. It’s a little sick, he knows, since Sam thinks he’s dead, but the way his brother is going to crumble into his arms– Dean is counting the seconds. 

He arrives at the bunker just in time. 

Some twiggy blonde bitch in stilettos is getting help from the driver of her Bentley. They’re in the process of awkwardly stuffing Sam in the back seat. 

Sam. 

Dean’s Sam.

His gargantuan little brother isn’t moving and there’s blood though Dean doesn’t think long enough to look for its point of origin. He barely registers the surprised expression on the woman’s face as he lifts his gun.

He has never hesitated or cared less about two bullets or two bodies in all his life. He says nothing, only unflinchingly pulls the trigger twice as he strides towards the vehicle with a frightening surety.

Dean doesn’t even hear the two heavy thuds as they both drop to the earth; he’s too busy crawling in the back seat over his brother’s legs where they’re awkwardly sprawled over the edge, leaning over him to get his hands on Sam’s face, feel his breath, his pulse – very nearly Dean’s own vital signs.

Sam groans quietly as Dean’s knee presses against his thigh between it and the back of the seat. Tentative, terrified relief floods Dean’s body.

“Hey, Sammy, hey.” Dean’s palm finds his brother’s face, smoothes back his hair like a reflex, reassuring, even as his voice shakes. “C’mon, kiddo. Look at me.” 

Sam shifts and makes another small, unfocused sound but his eyes stay shut.

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest; for a moment he struggles to catch his breath.

Sam’s colour is poor and there’s a sheen of sweat clinging to him that has nothing to do with the ambient temperature. The splatter of blood is from a gunshot to the shoulder. Sam’s been incapacitated like this before – Bela shot him in this very spot what seems a lifetime ago – so it shouldn’t be fatal except that the bullet, which Dean can _see_ where it’s still lodged inside his brother’s broken flesh, is glowing faintly. It’s a soft blue light that occasionally seems to pulse out under Sam’s skin, apparently to his brother’s discomfort, considering the way he responds with anguished sounds and clenching muscles. 

“Fucking Christ,” Dean curses under his breath and drags a hand down his face, stopping to rub aggressively at his jaw. This is exactly the kind of shit Dean never wants to deal with again: his kid brother in danger and at the mercy of anything or anyone but him. 

Dean forces down the panic that he feels bubbling up, threatening a flood; this isn’t like the bullet he dug out of Sam’s belly a few weeks ago. There’s magic here, or something like it, and Dean can only imagine how bad it is but that’s not going to help him right now. Instead, he steels himself against all thoughts past getting his brother back inside the bunker.

Sam is dead weight where Dean has yanked his arm across his shoulder, holding onto him with calloused hands and white knuckles as he practically drags him inside. He spreads Sam out on the oversized Risk board in the war room because it’s as far as he can get before he has to put his brother down.

As he strips out of his jacket, panting and trying to catch his breath, Dean spies the bloody banishing sigil dripping on the wall and his heart tightens. _Cas_. He’ll be able to help. As soon as he can he’ll be back, and he’ll help Dean with Sam. In the meantime, Sam doesn’t appear to be bleeding out, Dean isn’t about to start playing doctor with the spellbound slug in his shoulder, and there’s a bloody crime scene outside their front door.

Dean folds up his discarded coat and tucks it under Sam’s head, trying not to choke up when Sam still doesn’t wake. 

“I’ll be right back, Sammy. Just– gotta clean up. Don’t go anywhere, kiddo,” he tries to laugh as he gently pats Sam’s chest, trying to be reassuring, but he has to force himself to let go of Sam’s bloodied shirt to step away.

The bodies get unceremoniously torched as far from the bunker as Dean sees fit to drag them. He searches them before he lights them up to find nothing but a recently fired, empty Walther PPK on the woman and matching Men of Letters pins. Distantly, he thinks he should be concerned about that, but he can’t bring himself to care. Whoever and whatever these people were is irrelevant; Dean saw everything he needed to know. He leaves the coals burning and parks the Bentley in the garage with the handgun abandoned on the passenger seat to deal with later. Or maybe never. Dean isn’t giving it much thought; his only priority is to get back to Sam. 

When he gets back to the war room, Cas is standing over his brother looking a little worse for wear but he has his hand extended and hovering over his brother’s wound, his head cocked to the side like he’s trying to read into it. 

“Cas!” Dean starts, picking up the pace as he comes closer. “You okay?”

“I am fine, Dean. I’m sorry. She – the woman – was unexpected.” Cas looks at him apologetically even as his fingers move and he narrows his eyes, apparently still analyzing. 

“Doesn’t matter, Cas. You’re here now. Can you–” Dean stops himself on a shaky breath. He knows he doesn’t need to ask. Everything Cas can do, he’s already started.

“I’ve patched him as best I can for the moment but this bullet…” Cas looks concerned. “There is some very complicated magic at work here. It will take time for me to fully understand what it is doing to him and if it’s safe for me to remove it. In the meantime…” 

Cas gently taps two fingers to Sam’s forehead and he vanishes.

“He’s in your room.” Cas answers the unasked question on Dean’s face.

Dean’s stomach clenches instinctively. On some level he assumes Cas knows about them – he is an angel, after all – but it’s not something they acknowledge or talk about and frankly, Dean prefers it that way. At least, for now. Anything else is too much for his worry-addled brain to deal with.

Cas seems to sense his discomfort, tilting his head and opening his mouth to offer further explanation.

“In the event that he wakes, I didn’t think he’d want to be in his room. Not after Lucifer…” Cas offers and Dean nods, waving a finger as if to say _good point_. 

His eyes catch a splash of drying blood, dark on the backlit map of the table, and Dean’s mind sticks anxiously on thoughts of his brother, only a few rooms away but so much less healthy than when Dean last left him.

Cas must perceive this too, because he places a hand gently on Dean’s back for a moment before he gives him a knowing look and retreats to the library. Dean supposes he’s going to try and figure out the bullet and Dean figures he should ask him outright what happened, how Sam was when he thought that Dean was– but he can’t. He can’t even bring himself to move.

For a long while he stands where Cas leaves him, hands shaking and heart pounding as his thoughts stay focused, laser sharp, on Sam. When he finally forces himself to move, he starts by cleaning up the blood, giving himself something to do and trying not to think of it as his little brother’s life as he scrubs it away.

He loses track of time as he wipes it all up, his knees creaking when he finally stands, sparing a last glance at the shiny, wet, clean floor. He moves to the library on auto-pilot and doesn’t realize he’s poured himself some whiskey until the familiar burn is moving smoothly down his throat and he snaps out of it a little bit, noticing Cas sitting at the long table surrounded by a pile of old, open books. His friend is eyeing him cautiously and his mouth purses as Dean settles in the chair opposite him with a resigned sigh.

“What is it, Cas? Why’re you looking at me like that?” Dean asks over the rim of his glass, his voice rough. 

Castiel squints at him.

“Dean,” he starts, his gravelly voice carrying a gentle but stern edge that is all too familiar. “Earlier today you carried a soul-bomb to destroy the Darkness, and in turn yourself, saying goodbye to Sam and thinking you would never see him again. By some miracle Amara is gone and you’re still here and your brother is in a very precarious condition. I don’t need to sleep and I have some idea what I’m looking for–” he puts up a hand to cut Dean off when he leans forward and opens his mouth to argue. “I’ll tell you when I have a more solid understanding of what that bullet is and what it’s doing to Sam. Go to bed, Dean. Please.”

Briefly, there’s an old fire in Dean’s blood that flares and makes him want to argue, but he knows Castiel is right. He can barely focus and finally sitting down he feels the effects of the day starting to weigh on him; what’s left of his brain is not present, instead still circling thoughts of bullet holes, blood, and baby brothers. Maybe, just this once, he’ll quietly do as Cas says.

“Yeah, alright,” he acquiesces. Cas looks equal parts surprised and relieved. Dean downs the remainder of his whiskey and replaces the empty glass on the coaster for another time. With an effort, he forces himself out of the chair and shuffles heavily off towards the hallway.

He hesitates at the door to his room. His grip on the handle gets tighter as he lets his head fall forward to rest on the smooth wood. He breathes deeply and for a fleeting moment considers going to sleep in Sam’s room to give his wounded brother space but… he can’t bring himself to put the distance between them. He opens the door and Sam is lying there on his back, tucked in and looking surprisingly peaceful. 

Dean wishes he were less shaky but he’s exhausted and drained and it takes him longer than it should to peel out of his clothes and get into bed. Sam is stripped down to his boxers under the covers – compliments of Cas, apparently; Dean might flush if he weren’t so tired – and Dean lays on his side with his head propped up by his elbow so he can look at Sam’s face, watch his chest rise and fall steadily, the clean white bandage on his shoulder a bright contrast to his warm, golden skin. Eventually, Dean’s eyelids become difficult to keep open. Dean leans to pull the cord on the bedside lamp and shut it off. He lays back down, still facing Sam, and in the darkness of the room the faintly pulsing white-blue glow under his brother’s skin is more pronounced and unsettlingly eerie. Dean swallows hard. 

His arm reaches out and finds Sam’s hand where it’s lax on his stomach under the sheet. He laces his fingers through his brother’s and forces down the wave of emotion trying to choke him when Sam’s fingers remain unmoving where they’re clasped by Dean’s own.

“Sammy…” Dean’s voice breaks and he smiles ruefully, trying to laugh at himself. When– when did he get so fucking fragile? Whatever. It’s obviously Sam’s fault, and the bastard isn’t even conscious so Dean can give him shit about it. He lifts Sam’s hand up to his face and plants a lingering kiss across his knuckles. “You’re gonna be just fine, baby. Jus’ fine. I’m gonna take care ‘a you, like always. Promise.” 

He whispers the words as he tucks Sam’s hand back under the covers. He holds on though, his thumb passing over it back and forth, and reluctantly he lets his eyes close. He can occasionally still see his brother glowing through his shut eyes and he tries to focus instead on the more reassuring sounds of his brother’s breathing. He’s so tired that he only follows the quiet in and out twice more before sleep takes him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I didn't tag this fic for underage because they don't get together until S1 timeline, which will be established in the fic, but there is a series of flashbacks here that do illustrate that the longing goes way back. Just a heads up :)

**Chapter Two** \---

_ Sam’s hand tugs on his as he excitedly pulls Dean forward. He’s laughing and it’s carefree and perfect. He’s so small, can only be maybe ten, eleven at the most, his light, shaggy hair flopping about his head as he tries to run with his big brother in tow. _

_ “Dean!” He practically fucking giggles. “Come  _ on _! Or we’ll miss it!”  _

_ Dean didn’t even hear it until now, the tinny, distorted telltale jingle of an ice cream truck. His breath is caught in his chest staring at the painfully sweet, innocent looking little boy yanking on his hand, that little boy whose relatively worry-free face is at once a soothing balm and subtle sting. He finally wrenches his eyes off his brother to look up and sure enough, across the field a big white truck with brightly coloured paintings of cartoon ice cream cones and rocket pops is pulling up to be swarmed by a small group of kids and a few parents.  _

_ He lets himself be dragged forward but resists enough that hopefully they’ll be the last ones there and the families will have scattered. By the time they’re close enough to the window most of the kids have gone but there’s one left, maybe six years old, with his mom and dad still placing his order. Dean swallows hard as his gaze moves cautiously back and forth between his brother and the family.  _

_ He watches as Sam’s enthusiastic smile fades to something more reserved, his dimples disappearing as the other kid’s dad lifts him up to take the cone from the man in the window. When he sets him down the kid is gleeful and his mother takes his free hand. They walk away together like that – kid licking the cone, mom holding his hand, dad’s arm over mom’s shoulders – and Dean feels the long forgotten pangs of sadness and guilt that he used to feel whenever he saw how deeply his kid brother longed for that ‘ _ normal’ _ that always seemed light years out of reach. He doesn’t think Sam even realizes how hard he’s clutching at Dean’s hand as he watches the three of them walk away, but Dean is sharply aware of it, feels it echo in his chest and the knots of his stomach. _

_ “You kids know what you’d like?” A friendly voice from the window breaks the moment and Dean is glad for it, even if Sam doesn’t go back to smiling quite the way he was before.  _

_ Sam orders an absurd, rainbow coloured popsicle that Dean knows is going to make his lips bright red and sticky-sweet; the thought makes something stir low in his gut and between his legs and  _ god _ , there’s  _ that _ guilt again. It’s a flash-flood of heat and self-loathing, near-crippling. It’s been… so long. They’ve been  _ them _ for so long he almost forgot how hard it had been before, looking at his brother like that. He almost forgot how far back it went, though really he’s always known he was gone for Sam since forever. It’s little solace now though, looking at kid-Sam and feeling that  _ want _ ; he doesn’t miss feeling like such a sick fuck.  _

_ Sam’s smiling again now that’s he’s had a chance to get the icy, sugary treat in his mouth, and he licks his lips as he tugs on Dean’s hand to get his attention. _

_ “Dean? What’re you getting?” _

_ Dean blinks and reaches his other hand into the pocket of his jeans. He’s only got a couple bills and some change - just enough for the popsicle that’s already starting to drip onto his little brother’s fingers. He doesn’t miss this, either. _

_ “You kidding? I don’t want any of this sugary frou-frou stuff. It’s just for bratty little brothers,” he laughs it off, winking and unlacing his fingers from Sam’s to ruffle them in the kid’s hair. He reaches up and puts the money on the ledge, nodding at the guy as he slides it across. “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s go.” _

_ Sam glares, grumpy for being called a brat, and eyes Dean suspiciously for a moment – a precursor to so many bitch faces that he would someday perfect – but Dean just grins and wags his eyebrows at him. He waves his hand, palm up in invitation and that smile is blooming again, little kid cheeks pushing up chubby and dimples digging in as Sam takes his hand and they walk off together, Dean doing his absolute best trying to ignore the work of Sam’s tongue collecting the multi-coloured rivulets melting down the length of the popsicle and the small, hungry sucking sounds of his lips when they close around it.  _

\---

_ Dean is swimming. Not actually, in water or something. Although that wouldn’t be  _ completely  _ untrue, the way he can’t seem to quit crying. He’s drunk – more than he’s ever been, maybe – and he hurts. It’s never been like this before. Nothing has ever hurt like this. He chokes on it – can’t breathe for the way he sobs – and he’s so mad for a moment he wants to chuck the empty bottle of Jack in his hand hard against the wall just to watch it smash but the impulse is gone and leaves him deflated before he gets a chance to follow through. _

_ When Sam left he’d been numb. He couldn’t believe it was really happening, that his kid brother was finally doing it – searching out his precious normal at the expense of him and Dad. Dean couldn’t even blame him really, not when their life is a dangerous mess hunting monsters on the road and, maybe worst of all, there is this…  _ thing _ between them. He can feel it, knows Sam does too, and in honest moments Dean will admit it terrifies him. A part of him almost admires Sam for having it in him to try to get away. Dean is scared but could never leave Sam, even if maybe he should – but he naively thought – _ hoped?  _ – Sam would be back. _

_ But it’s been weeks. Dean can’t even tell exactly how many days, he’s been so out of it. He’s been moving through life on automatic, the reality of it all seeping in slowly like a bone-deep, deathly cold, stealthy and subtle so by the time it’s noticeable it’s probably already too late. _

_ Something had to give, eventually. There was no other way. Nothing cut him deeper than knowing Sam was  _ away.  _ From Dad, from  _ him _ , from their life. Happy. Without Dean.  _

_ Dean mourns the loss of his brother the only way he knows how: at the bottom of the bottle. Or more aptly, a couple bottles. He remembers the worst hangover of his life, holed up for days in a dumpy motel while Dad was two states away hunting a Wendigo. Dean was supposed to be researching some old missing persons cases but he’d wound up in a library that made him think of his nerdy kid brother, then found himself a dive, and then started drinking and just couldn’t stop. He’s not really sure how he lived through it, when he looks back. If someone had told him that he just needed to keep grinding, that he’d someday get his brother back – _ really  _ back, and in all the ways he’d dreamed about – he wouldn’t have believed it. He  _ doesn’t _ believe it and for one night, he acts on the completely strung out desperation and loneliness of it, drinking far too much and crying his eyes red and raw for his love lost. _

_ \--- _

_ The light is bright behind Dean’s eyes. When he shifts, pain shoots across his abdomen and he’s suddenly awake, wincing and hissing and clutching at his stomach. His stomach? He blinks through it and looks around, the familiar surroundings are one of Bobby’s old safe houses, one of half a dozen cabins scattered across the country, not that he has the clarity of mind to recognize which one. There’s a faded old quilt covering his legs and this… this is… that time, oh.  _ Oh.

_ “Dean!”  _

_ His eyes fly to the source of the sound, Sam coming down the hallway with shower-damp hair in that stupid purple t-shirt with the dog on it and a pair of old boxers. Dean is still clutching at his stomach as Sam closes the distance between them in one breath, his brother’s legs plenty long as they fold and tuck underneath him. Sam is on his knees next to Dean where he’s sitting up on the couch and he looks so worn out and weary, like he hasn’t been sleeping because he hasn’t been, instead keeping vigil over his big brother and–  _

_ “You’re awake!” His voice is breathy and relieved. “Don’t– don’t move so much. You got– um, clawed up pretty good. I had to– there’s a lot of stitches.”  _

_ Sam whispers and his hand lights on the back of Dean’s where it’s still pressing in against the pain. He’d grown so fucking much while he was gone – familiar and yet not in any of the same ways as before and Dean could only ache for the precious young thing that got left behind while feeling all those old feelings again tenfold at the sight of Sam at twenty-two – but now, curled up small and looking up at Dean through his bangs with those bright eyes and bashful kind of quiet in his voice, he’s so painfully  _ Sam  _ that Dean can feel himself start to shake a little. Sam has looked like hell ever since they hit the road, between Jessica and Dad, but now it’s because of Dean. Somehow, that hurts more than his stomach.  _

_ “Thanks for patching me up, Sammy,” Dean croaks out, and his voice is as rough as he ever remembers it being, a couple days’ disuse and dehydration. _

_ “For a while there I thought– I mean, you…” Sam tries to get words out but it looks like they’re stuck in his mouth, his tongue tied with worry and relief and– well, all that other stuff, the stuff that made Sam run away, the stuff they’ve tried to ignore, that they’ve never talked about, not yet.  _

_ Sam chuckles lightly – it’s forced, a little sad – and his mouth moves like he wants to say something, anything to laugh it off but his eyes are glistening, shiny, red and tired, and Dean remembers how touch and go it had seemed to him, how scared Sam had been. Sam is on an edge – they both are, always were back then – and Dean remembers it felt like the biggest leap of his life, finally giving in to what he knew they’d both been dancing around for what felt like their entire lives, but now, just remembering it… it’s so easy. _

_ “Sammy…” He takes his hand and tilts his brother’s face up, leans their foreheads together slowly so he can watch everything move across Sam’s face – surprise, disbelief, hope, and all the love Dean has never felt he deserved. The sound Sam makes when Dean kisses him is one he’s cherished ever since.  _

\---

_ Dean is choking, sputtering and spitting blood. He can barely see and his face– _ fuck _ , he hurts. Everywhere. He– he’s– this is–  _

_ “It’s okay, Dean. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got him.”  _

_ His blurry vision focuses on Sam’s bloodied knuckles as they pull back and his fist loosens. Dean’s face is so wet with blood and everything is on fire, throbbing, but he can still feel the salty sting of his own tears and he’s letting out an incredulous, relieved breath but his whole body is screaming _ .  _ This was always the plan, this is them winning but– Sam, Sammy, no, no, no, no, no,  _ no _! _

_ He watches Sam pull Michael with him into the pit and Dean can’t breathe, the air just won’t go in, and he can’t stop shaking. He’s shaking like he’s going to come apart and every molecule of his being wants to be following his brother into that dark and–  _


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three** \---

“Dean!”

Dean gasps as his eyes fly open. He scrambles up in the bed, panic flooding his veins and leaving him momentarily disoriented. Castiel is standing next to him looking very concerned, his brow furrowed deeply like it has the tendency to do, and Dean’s chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath and situate himself.

He’s in his bed. 

With Sam. 

Sam, who is unconscious, looking almost as if in normal sleep except for the bandage on his exposed shoulder and the still pulsing, faint glow coming from under it. Dean’s stomach is turning and he feels weak, jittery and dizzy. He’s sweating profusely, feverish, and starting to think he might have to throw up. He’s still blinking through the heavy fog of the dreams – memories? – and tries to centre himself by looking at Sam.

Who is still unconscious. And still glowing. Next to him in bed. Because they’re in bed together.

And Cas is standing next to them. 

“I’m sorry to have intruded but you were crying out in your sleep. And I’ve learned about the bullet, Dean. I’m worried about you – both of you.”

Dean is still stuck on Cas seeing him half-naked in bed with his brother. He feels himself pale as it sinks in and then– 

He leans over and just narrowly avoids missing the garbage bin as whatever makes up the contents of his stomach spill out of him violently. He’s suddenly not really hung up on the fact that Cas is less capable of pretending not to be aware of his and Sam’s… situation.

“Easy, Dean.” Castiel tries to be soothing as he continues heaving, and then a hand is on Dean’s shoulder. A moment later the nausea is abated and Dean feels that strange, eerie calm of Cas’s grace warring to block out the overwhelmingly ill feelings. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and takes his first relatively easy breath since waking up. 

“Cas,” he grates out, grimacing a little at the foul taste of his own mouth. “What’s happening to me?”

Cas looks at him gravely, sparing a quick glance at Sam before he answers.

“It’s the bullet, Dean. This is complicated, soul-level magic. This bullet… Think of it like your demon trap bullets, but for human souls. It keeps the victim subdued, under the control of the individual who cast the spell. I can only assume that the woman you dispatched is responsible for the casting so, as far as I can tell, your brother is stuck like this. He will likely remain this way until the spell is broken and then the bullet can be safely removed.”

Dean listens to Cas intently, nodding and trying to be relieved that their friend has made progress identifying the magic, but he’s waiting anxiously for the part where they can fix it. He tries not to get frustrated when Castiel continues standing there silently, having clearly not answered Dean’s initial question.

“What does any of that have to do with me? Why do I feel like I’ve been hit with the worst flu of my life?” 

Cas shifts uncomfortably.

“It is a soul sickness, Dean,” he states plainly, as if Dean is supposed to know what that means. 

“Soul sickness,” Dean echoes, not liking the sound of this. “Which means what, exactly?”

“Well, the bullet’s magic is essentially… fuelled by your brother’s soul, reinforced by and feeding from it. They’re bound and the connection is parasitic in many ways. It’s why it is so effective to incapacitate. Sam appears calm because I am doing my best to ease his way but let me assure you, Dean, he is very much in danger. His soul grows weaker the longer the bullet is embedded in his body. As for you…” 

Cas sighs, his hands clenching momentarily at his sides before continuing.

“Sam’s soul is in distress. There isn’t much it can do while tangled up in this spell, but your physical proximity allows it to reach out. It’s desperately trying to protect Sam by leeching what it can from you. What you’re feeling are the ill effects of that.”

Dean is briefly dumbfounded. He looks from Cas to his brother and even though Cas’ grace is helping him to feel less feverish, he feels a horrible kind of dread settling in, that bone-deep, apparently  _ soul-deep _ worry that only exists in him for Sam. He swallows thickly, wrestling with the panic.

“But how–” Dean starts, the lines of his face deepening as he tries to wrap his head around it all.

“Dean, you know how.” Cas levels him with a pointed stare, intense and serious. When Dean just looks at him, confused, Cas actually huffs in frustration, which takes him aback. “Because you’re  _ soulmates _ , Dean.”

Dean stares at him blankly. Castiel almost looks sorry at him for the way he’s had to spell it out. It’s not that Dean didn’t know that. He loves Sam, has always loved him, hell– he honest to goodness can’t –  _ won’t  _ – live without him, but somehow, hearing it from an angel…?

Ash had told them once, too, years ago. He’d had no qualms pointing out that in Heaven they had their ‘Winchesterland’ as he’d called it, and then went on to say that only special cases –  _ soulmates  _ – shared a heaven, letting them draw their own conclusions. But things after that had gone– well, awful, actually, and while Dean had never forgotten the conversation, he and Sam had missed the chance to talk about it and never brought it up again, either. 

Dean looks at Sam’s sleeping form and subconsciously reaches up to palm at his chest where the amulet should be hanging. He makes a mental note to fish it out of Sam’s jacket and put it on the minute he gets out of bed. He still can’t believe (except for how he can, because  _ Sam _ ) his brother has had it this whole time. It makes his heart hurt to think Sam never knew how to give it back even after all these years.

Castiel has been quiet, watching him and patiently letting Dean work through his thoughts. Dean’s eyes are locked on Sam’s, tracking the subtle movements under the delicate skin. 

“So, so what– just ‘cause he’s the fuckin’ love of my–” he cuts himself off and adamantly refuses to look at Cas. His voice is shakier and wetter than he expected and he can’t bring himself to say the rest aloud; he’s never actually talked about Sam like that to anyone before. Thinking about his brother’s soul reaching out to him because he’s in such trouble… Dean waves his hand in a vague gesture towards his brother then lets it drop back to the bed where he fists it in the sheet. He chews at his lip as he tries to pull himself together.

Castiel gives him another moment of quiet before placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“It’s more than that, Dean. People love all the time, it doesn’t mean their partners are their soulmates. People can be the right match for one another and still not be soulmates; they’re not the same thing, though humans have conflated the meanings over the centuries. You and Sam… it’s not just that you love – or are  _ in _ love – with each other. Your souls are one and the same. It’s exceptionally rare and always done with intention. There are no mistakes where you and Sam are concerned. Everything you are – all the things you were and still are destined to do – you have the strength to do  _ because  _ you are soulmates. Souls are basically energy, Dean. They’re raw power. Your bodies are just a temporary housing. Splitting the single soul between you both creates something so much greater. You are instinctively, inescapably drawn to each other, and when you  _ are  _ together everything you can do– it’s simply  _ more _ . It’s amplified. Uh,” Cas struggles for the right words, thinking hard. “Like soul power in stereo.” 

Dean is overwhelmed. He supposes that what Cas says makes sense, but he never thought... Looking back at their lives with this new knowledge in mind everything looks a little bit different.

For possibly the first time in his life, Dean reaches for Sam’s hand in the presence of someone who knows them. He laces their fingers together and holds Sam’s hand in his own, cradled on his lap. 

“So this…” Dean takes a deep breath and finally looks at Cas, whose eyes are almost unbearably kind. Dean brings Sam’s hand up and holds it to his heart. “This is part of it? Part of us? Inevitable?” He hesitates and then decides he might as well go for broke. “ ...okay?” 

He’s not even sure why he’s asking. Dean gave up caring about the right or wrong of him and Sam ages ago. No matter what anyone might say, nothing in his life has ever felt more right and that has always been enough for both of them. And God? God can pretty much take a fucking hike. Dean doesn’t need his approval to keep on loving Sam in the only way he knows. But hearing from Cas now that this was always in the cards… he can’t stop himself from wanting to know.

Castiel gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze and fixes him with a sincere stare.

“A love like yours and your brother’s might as well be written in the stars.”

Dean chuffs a laugh under his breath, short, sudden and borderline delirious. He blinks and looks away because his eyes are swimming a little and he feels ridiculous. Castiel is waxing poetic about the rightness of their less-than-brotherly love and it’s possibly one of the most stupidly beautiful things Dean has ever heard in his life. Which he will never, ever admit out loud.

He lifts Sam’s hand up to his face and presses his lips to the back of it, keeping them there with closed eyes and resolutely does not let himself freak out that Cas knows, has always known, and that he’s watching them now. After a long minute, he eventually puts Sam’s hand back down and sighs.

“Okay, Cas.” Dean says, finally. “How do we fix him? Please,  _ please, _ tell me you know how we can fix him.”

Cas doesn’t make him suffer long.

“Yes,” he answers quickly, and Dean bites his lips and flutters his lashes a bit because he absolutely will not cry right now, even for the happiness and relief that comes with knowing he’ll be able to save his baby brother. “But it won’t be easy, Dean.”

Dean does really laugh then.

“When is anything ever easy for us, Cas?” Dean retorts. Cas makes a face that suggests he concedes the point. “I don’t care what it is. Just– tell me what to do.” 

Castiel looks resigned and unsurprised by Dean’s response. 

“It’s complicated spellwork. It might be worthwhile to ask–”

“No! Absolutely not. I don’t care what just went down with the Darkness. Separate ways were went and we are not asking that red-headed witchy bitch for help again. Ever. We’ll manage fine, Cas. What do I gotta do?”

Dean doesn’t give him a chance to argue. He gives Castiel a pointed look to encourage him to continue, and he gets a mildly unimpressed look and sigh in return.

“There are many ingredients. You have most of them here already in the bunker’s stores. I can acquire the last two. But there’s… more to it than that, Dean.”

The angel shifts uncomfortably again and Dean sighs.

“I already told you I don’t care, Cas. Just– lay it on me.”

“The spell is growing more powerful as it siphons from Sam’s soul. In order for this counter spell to work, we need soul power, too. And not just any soul power. Sam’s soulmate. Yours, Dean. You’re the only person who might be able to make this possible. It could be painful for you–” Dean rolls his eyes and huffs, like Cas doesn’t already know none of that matters when Sam is on the line, but Cas continues, cutting him off with a very serious look and talking over him. “–and will have permanent consequences.”

Dean’s mouth opens and promptly shuts. He gives Cas a puzzled look. When he speaks, his voice is just past a growl.

“What kind of consequences?”

“Dean, you have to understand. The bond created by the spell carried in that bullet and your brother’s soul is strong. It can’t really even be broken per se, but it can be superseded. If I give your souls a permanent, physical connection, here, on this plane, no bond is stronger. The initial spell will essentially be rendered inert and the bullet will cease to be anything more than that, and consequently safe to extract.” 

Cas says it all with such a gravity that Dean listens to each word deliberately, weighing them before he speaks.

“Okay, so… you still haven’t explained what that means? What it’ll mean for us to have– uh, connected souls?”

Cas opens his mouth and closes it again before huffing and looking away.

“Oh,” Dean says as it dawns on him. “You don’t actually know, do you?”

“I’m sorry, Dean. Soulmates are rare; the need to perform this spell is even more so. I have no experience here, only conjecture. The fleshy trappings that keep you separate – that make you two unique individuals – will not do that completely any longer. There will be… bleed. You might begin to sense each other on a more immediate, internal level.”

There’s a pause while Dean works through that.

“Are you saying... I might be able to hear Sam’s thoughts?” Dean’s eyes are wide, incredulous as he utters the words.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Probably. It likely won’t be as concrete as that, more vague sensations and feelings, though as you adjust and time goes on you might be able to read each other impeccably well. Significant physical distance between you may also be difficult. I can’t say anything for certain, Dean.”

“Huh.” Dean looks at Sam’s sleeping form and wonders what his brother would be thinking right now, if he were a conscious and active participant in this conversation. He wonders how mad Sam will be when he wakes up to discover he has to put up with Dean so… inescapably. Not that it matters, really. Dean’s mind was made up long before Castiel even started talking. The answer to everything for Dean will always be Sam.

“Well alright then,” Dean says with a nod, making to carefully swing his legs out of the bed. He sits up with the blanket still pulled across his lap. “Let’s get this show on the road, Cas. Time is of the essence, right? I’m ready. Get those ingredients and let’s get cooking.”

“Okay, Dean.” Cas responds.

Dean looks up at him expectantly and after a moment the angel seems to get the message and snaps out of it, nodding and turning away a little awkwardly before vanishing with a flutter. 

Dean is relieved to be alone with Sam. Castiel just dumped a whole hell of a lot of heavy, life changing stuff on him. He takes it in stride because the point is that when it’s said and done, he and Sam will still  _ have _ a life, but there’s certainly lots to digest. 

He gets out of bed and dresses quickly, with purpose. He doesn’t forget to dig through the pockets of Sam’s jacket where it’s slung across the back of his chair to take out the amulet. It feels a little like something special when he slips the old leather cord around his neck but he doesn’t let himself linger. He’s got to get some food in him, then he’s going to track down the ingredients they need that the bunker already has. When he’s finished tying his laces and rolling the sleeves on his plaid shirt, he looks down at Sam and sighs with a determined smile.

“Hang in there, Sammy…” He trails his fingers across his brother’s forehead, pushing back stray strands of hair and tucking them behind his ear. “I’m gonna fix you up, kiddo. You can kick my ass for it after.” 

Dean laughs a little to himself as he leans forward and presses his lips to Sam’s temple, cautiously looking forward to his brother being well enough to give him a run for his money.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four** \---

Considering the sheer magnitude of what they’re about to attempt, the spell itself isn’t actually that complicated. Dean has everything set out by the time Castiel returns to the bunker, having made a makeshift altar out of the desk in his room, tracing symbols onto it with white chalk and lighting candles as required. 

While they work, the toll the spell is taking on Sam is starting to show. His colour is worsening and Dean can see the light from the candles catching in the blossoming sheen of sweat on his brother’s skin. He is more restless, too, shifting and making quiet, pained sounds in his sleep. On a particularly loud groan, Dean and Cas both pause where they’re hunched over the desk and share a brief, concerned glance before getting back to their tasks all the more fervently. 

When the ingredients are properly mixed, all that’s left are the magic words. Instinctively, Dean picks up a knife, ready to cut into his palm for the usual blood sacrifice. Cas gives him a confused look.

“What’s that for?” He gestures to it with his free hand as he stands behind the altar, an old tome laid open on his other palm.

“Uh… the spell? It’s not– sealed with blood?” Dean asks, the thought having not occurred to him before. 

“No. Actually,” Cas looks down at the book again for a brief moment and Dean almost thinks he sees– is Castiel _blushing_? The angel clears his throat and then looks at Dean with an amused smile. “It’s sealed with a kiss.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Dean can’t stop from sputtering out the words. Unbelievable. Not only does it mean kissing Sam in front of Cas – which okay, fine but _weird_ – but if this is how this is going down, Dean is going to be calling Sam Sleeping Beauty until they’re both senile old men. He’s torn between utter glee and an unfamiliar kind of nervousness.

“This is very serious, Dean. I would not joke about it. Once I finish reading the spell and drop the hawkweed into the urn, you must kiss Sam. The physicality is the spark the spell needs to establish the connection between your souls.”

There’s something grave and final in the way Cas says it that grounds Dean back in the moment. Sam is still quietly writhing on the bed beside him and watching his brother’s soft features scrunch up in pain is the last thing Dean needs to find his focus.

“Right. Do it, Cas.” Dean stands at the ready and listens to Cas clearly pronounce the unfamiliar words. It’s not long, only several lines, and then Cas is dropping the final herb into mix and white-blue smoke rises from the urn. The angel signals him _now_ with a sharp nod.

Dean doesn’t let himself think about it, even if it is kind of a _thing_ that he’s going to kiss Sam in front of someone who knows they’re brothers. _Someone who understands_ , his mind supplies, just as Dean is leaning down. He almost can’t believe it but there’s a flutter high in his stomach for their audience. He closes his eyes, tries to stop thinking altogether, and presses his mouth to Sam’s.

At first, it’s like any other time Dean has chastely touched their lips together. Then, just before he starts to wonder how long he’s supposed to hold the kiss, he feels it: the strangest sensation. It’s like something is actually blooming in his chest, a feeling that quickly gets stronger and sweeps across his body. It’s not painful, though not exactly good either. It’s not hot or cold but it gives Dean a shivery kind of chill nonetheless, makes him _feel_ … bright? Alive. He feels as though he’s floating even though his feet remain firmly planted on the ground. The feeling is all over and then suddenly right behind his lips. His breath catches and he wants to gasp but in the moment he can’t separate his mouth from Sam’s and then there’s an honest to god _spark –_ not painful but warm and pleasantly electric – and the hold seems to break. Dean does gasp then and stumbles back, eyes open wide and fixed on his brother. Sam is glowing – the blue-white from the bullet – but now solid and bright and all over. It seems to intensify for a heartbeat more before vanishing completely in the next instant.

Dean stares, his heart in his throat.

“Sam?” He forces out roughly. 

His brother shifts in the bed and his eyes fly open as he grimaces and a hand flies to his shoulder, pressing on the bandage. 

“De– _ugh_ – Dean? What–” He scrambles backwards in the bed so that he’s sitting up, clutching at his shoulder and hissing with the movement, his eyes tracking back and forth between Dean, Cas, and the altar in between them.

“Thank God, Sammy,” Dean exhales in a rush, moving to sit on the edge of Sam’s bed and put a hand on his thigh, just to feel him.

Then– 

“ _Oh my_ –”

“ _What the hell, Dean_?”

They talk over each other, startled when Dean’s hand connects with Sam’s body.

Dean’s eyes widen and he marvels at his hand where it rests. Dean can _feel_ Sam react to the touch; the strange, new but familiar sensations of panic and fear that had been bubbling up – those were Sam’s? They felt so much like Dean’s own? – calmed somewhat and yet, there was something else, too. It felt like Sam was reaching for him even though the hand of his gimp arm was fisted at his side and the other hand was still clenching at his shoulder.

Sam’s eyes are wide, too, locked on Dean’s, and he doesn’t have to say anything; Dean can feel his questions, the yearning to understand, a tickling fear of the unknown – what Sam must be feeling – pushing at him. Dean wonders how he must feel to his brother. For his part, he’s mostly relieved Sam is conscious and the spell seems to have worked.

“Amara and Chuck – they took off, just like that. Skipped off into the fucking sunset or some shit. And you – you got shot, Sammy.” Dean starts gently, prompting to see how much Sam remembers. He feels the brief swirling mess of confusion and then _ah yes_ – Sam remembers. “I took care of her, Sam. She’s gone. But the bullet, it was cursed. She kind of… locked it to your soul. It was eating away at you from the inside out. The only way to break the spell was to link our souls together, replace the bond between yours and the bullet with something stronger.”

Castiel is silent behind him and Dean watches as his brother’s face softens and his breathing slows. Sam blinks at him and Dean feels like maybe they really are reaching for each other in the quiet between them, touching without touching. There’s a gentle push-pull and Sam seems to calm further, though Dean can still feel an echo of his brother’s pain in his own shoulder.

“Because we’re soulmates?” Sam says weakly with a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. It makes Dean laugh a little and shake his head. Of course, Sam would get it right away. He can _feel_ Sam’s lightness when his kid brother watches him smile. It makes Dean feel unreasonably giddy.

“Yeah, Sammy. ‘Cause we’re soulmates.” 

Dean watches as Sam looks past him to Cas, feels his hesitation, but then whatever he sees on Castiel’s face must be enough because his brother nods and relaxes again, leaning back against the headboard. He closes his eyes and sighs.

“Sam, your soul has a long way to go before being fully restored,” Cas explains after clearing his throat. “While it recharges, you will feel weak. It would be best if you stayed in bed as much as possible until you’re feeling strong again.”  
  
Sam nods without opening his eyes, and Dean can feel him agreeing, the recognition that he does feel weak, not just disoriented from their connection. His face is serene despite everything, and Dean simply watches and feels. It’s on the edge of overwhelming, like hearing too much all at once, except it’s not too loud, instead familiar and kind of… _filling_. It’s new and confusing but somehow still comfortable. If he doesn’t pay attention, he mixes up what he’s feeling with what must actually belong to Sam, including the dull ache in his shoulder.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, reverent, with his eyes still closed. He gingerly lifts the hand covering his wound and sets it down palm up on his lap, wiggling his fingers. Dean instinctively threads them with his own. “I… I can _feel_ you.”

Dean can’t find words to respond. He can feel Sam’s wonder, can feel him exploring, pushing. Where their hands are touching, skin to skin, it’s more intense, like the touch is doubled, and there’s something gentle, almost sizzling, something alive between them. 

There’s a shifting sound in the room. Cas approaches them looking apologetic, like he knows he’s interrupting something. Dean hadn’t realized it, but he kind of is.

“I’m just going to– the bullet…” He points vaguely at Sam’s shoulder and Dean nods. Sam squeezes his hand. It feels like… _yes_ and _thank you._ Dean shivers.

Castiel peels back the bandage and the sensations translate strangely to Dean, something there almost-but-not-quite. Then Cas holds his hand out in front of Sam and as the bullet pulls out as if attracted to a magnet, Sam sucks in a breath and Dean does, too. When the bullet is in Castiel’s palm, inert, Castiel waves his other hand and both boys gasp as the wound disappears. 

Sam rolls his head to the side and opens his eyes, smiling.

“Thanks, Cas.” He says, his eyes soft.

Dean feels all of Sam’s relief now that the pain is gone. Everything _else_ is a little louder in its absence.

“I’m going to leave you two to– uh, figure out– yeah.” Cas stumbles awkwardly over the words and then disappears amidst his usual fluttering.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Castiel has been gone a moment and he finally lets it out. He’s all jittery, so much going on and making him feel completely disrupted. Nothing hurts anymore, not now that Cas fixed up Sam’s shoulder but everything’s so… _weird._ The saving grace is for all the new and not-him things going on – in his head? His heart? He’s not even sure – it’s all blissfully familiar and so distinctly _Sam_. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is startling in the quiet of the room and against the confusing noise inside Dean’s body. He blinks at his brother where Sam is looking at him with an infuriating little smirk that simultaneously makes Dean want to glare back at him or maybe kiss him, nip at those offending lips.

“Dean!” Sam laughs like he can sense Dean’s conflicting instincts and Dean flushes even as his eyes go wide. _Fuck_. Sam is still grinning as he squeezes Dean’s hand and continues.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Dean. Just relax. You’ll adjust.” 

Sam looks at him with those kind eyes of his and Dean can’t help but bristle at the condescension he knows Sam doesn’t mean. How the hell is he so calm? Why is he saying that like he’s already fucking adjusted? Dean did this, dammit, not– what the hell?

Eventually he gets some thoughts to his mouth, even if they still rush out in a jumble.

“How are you so okay with this? You’re not–” Dean squints, searching it out and not finding it. “You’re not angry? I mean– this is– it’s weird, even for us. You’re in my head? You’re in my head. Why aren’t you freaking out about being in my head?!” 

Dean doesn’t mean to let panic sink in – Sam is alive and healthy, so mission accomplished – but it seems to spring up anyway as the words tumble out. 

A myriad of expressions cross Sam’s face; it’s clear he’s trying to continue reassuring him but he’s also wrestling a little with what Dean’s feeling that he must be picking up. He smooths his thumb over Dean’s hand as he breathes in.

“Dean,” he gives him a level stare. “There’s not a lot I’m going to see or feel that’s new to me. I’ve been looking up to you – studying you, practically – since I was old enough to do it. You’re my big brother. And,” he chuckles, too. “My soulmate, Dean, even before this. I already know what goes on in there, okay? Don’t– don’t be afraid to let me see you,” Sam says, so gently. “You know nothing will ever make me love you less. Quit digging your heels in and relax. It’s just me.”

Dean is still jittery, still bristling. Why is this so easy for Sam? And Dean’s not fighting this– 

“ _Yes_ , you are,” Sam laughs a little but Dean can feel that he’s hurt even as he tries to reassure his big brother. He can feel Sam’s weariness, how being awake and dealing with all this even this short time is tiring him.

“Dean, please…” Sam says it just above a whisper and starts to lean forward. His eyes drop to Dean’s lips from his eyes as he closes the distance between them, his other hand reaching for the amulet around his neck, taking it in his hand in silent recognition of Dean’s having put it back on. 

Dean can feel his heart beat rabbit-fast in his chest and his blood is quick in his veins. He lets his own eyes lock on Sam’s because those shifting colours are so comforting and Dean hates that he feels like this, overwhelmed and a little lost, even though Sam’s right, it’s just Sam, but then, Sam _is_ right; it _is_ Sam and Dean has always given himself over completely to his brother but there’s so much of him that still has never understood his luck at having Sam at all, much less like _this_ , and– 

Sam’s fingers tug a little on the amulet’s cord and Dean can’t think past it. Internally a hurricane, Sam brings him to the eye of the storm: quiet, easy, and welcome. 

Dean closes his eyes and tilts forward into Sam’s space, their foreheads together, feeling better – calmer – with the touch. Sam is nosing at his face and placing chaste kisses on his cheeks and at the corners of his mouth. Dean feels so centered, so grounded by his brother. He lets out a shaky exhale and the fight he didn’t realize he was clinging to in his panic seems to melt away completely. In its place – _oh, God, Sam…_

“ _Sammy…_ ” Dean breathes his brother’s name; Sam might as well be the air in his lungs. It’s that feeling again, like when they'd cast the spell, but it’s warm and gentle, subtler this time. Dean can feel Sam’s heart, too, an echo of his own, and as Sam finally puts their lips together he’s sure he’s feeling their kiss from both sides of it. When Sam whimpers into it he hears it but feels it, too, and _fuck_ it feels so good. 

He opens his mouth to beg Sam in but his brother’s tongue was already moving; Dean sucks it in and they moan together at the sensation. Dean is all mixed up in the best way; he feels full as his mouth closes tightly on the smooth muscle but there’s an echo of the hot suck of his own mouth somehow, too. 

“Dean, fuck–” Sam pants as he pulls back, just enough to tip their foreheads together, the hand around the amulet letting it go to smooth, open-palm on his chest. “Fuck. This is– it’s intense.”

Dean nods because he struggles to find words appropriate for this situation, for what they’re feeling. He’s on fire for Sam, need flaring out under his skin with a familiar burn, his dick straining in his jeans, but he can feel Sam’s need, too. Everything is ratcheted up that much more and Dean has that much more trouble catching his breath for it. The way Sam feels, how he’s looking at him– 

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean chokes on it this time. He’s blinking again, this time to fend off wetness at his eyes. He doesn’t deserve this, can’t possibly deserve what Sam is giving him. In his mind he _knows_ – they’ve been together like this longer than they haven’t, it feels like – but Dean has never really let it in, truly accepted that Sam could ever feel for him the same crippling, strengthening, all-consuming _thing_ that Dean has felt for him forever. Feeling it now, inescapably, Dean doesn’t know what to do with it.

“This is how I love you, Dean. It’s how I’ve always loved you.” Sam’s voice is quiet but has an urgency to it. He takes Dean’s hands in his and places them over his heart, trapped between them. “I’ve always been this gone for you, always needed you like this. Just–” he kisses Dean, deeply– “like–” and again– “this.” 

Dean moans into his brother’s mouth, a long, low, wrecked sound that he can’t control. Sam’s tongue is moving beside his own and Sam’s hands are pulling at him now, trying to get him on the bed. Dean just lets go and follows that tugging, lets himself respond to Sam the way he can sense Sam wants him to. He twists into the kiss and crawls onto the bed to straddle his brother, sitting up long enough to pull off his shirts, the amulet falling back down onto his naked chest in the most familiar way, like it hasn’t been missing for the last six years. Sam undoes his pants. Dean kicks them off then, toeing off his socks, too. Sam slides back down the bed and moves the sheets so when Dean lays back down they’re skin to skin, the amulet pressing into them both like it used to, a little painful but grounding and real and _them_.

“De- _Dean_ ,” Sam stutters out as Dean makes him a blanket of his body. All the contact is like nothing else. It’s more than it’s ever been – which is saying something, really – but the more they touch the more this thing between them – _their soul_ , Dean supposes with a shiver – seems to sing. 

Dean pants desperately into the hollow of his brother’s neck. He moves his hips experimentally to rub them together. They’re both still wearing boxers but they’re achingly hard where they’re trapped between their bodies and they both gasp and cry out at the friction. 

“Sam, Sam, Sammy, _Sammy_ –” Dean can’t conjure up any other words. His brother has always been intoxicating but Dean is out of his mind. They’re just laying together but the head-to-toe press of their bodies combined with this new connection between them makes it feel like somehow they’re melting together. His little brother is writhing underneath him and he can _feel_ how Sam is drowning in this – in them; Dean isn’t faring much better.

Sam’s arms are at his back hugging him close, as close as he can be, but it feels closer than it ever has. They move against each other like two waves in the same ocean, getting lost in each other, indistinguishable. Dean really can’t tell where he ends and Sam starts, even though he distantly registers that his brother is canting his hips up to meet him and spreading his legs so Dean can fall that much more heavily into the space between them. 

Dean’s elbows dig into the pillow wide on either side of Sam’s head and his hands fist in Sam’s hair. He can’t stop the need to burrow himself in his brother every possible way he can and yet he can’t bring himself to slow down or change position so he can prep Sam and carve in for real. This is already too much. Everything between them, every touch and feeling is absolutely amplified by the new connection and the very _thought_ about how that’s going to feel when Dean does get his dick in his brother’s body has Dean whimpering against Sam’s skin. As it is now, this is enough, so much more than enough, and Dean knows they’re both close.

They’re rutting together in a flawless rhythm and Dean figures their synchronicity has everything to do with what’s happened. He’s starting to get light-headed from lack of air and Sam keeps making these desperate, needy, wanton sounds right into his ear. Dean is crushing him, he knows, his weight heavy on Sam’s chest, the sharp edges of the amulet digging in as they move together, but he can _feel_ how Sam is getting off on it, how he feels _protected_ by the shield of Dean’s body and it makes Dean’s heart ache almost as much as his iron-hard cock.

“ _Sam–”_

“Kiss me, De–” Sam begs brokenly but Dean had already instinctively started to prop himself up on his elbows just enough to devour his baby brother’s mouth before he can finish saying his name. He just _knew_ what Sam wanted; giving it is easy as breathing, as much who he is as the green of his eyes. Their new bond just makes it that much easier. 

Their tongues move against one another in Sam’s mouth and their lips are bruised from the force of their kisses. As Sam’s fingers dig into his back and his hips roll underneath him to drag their dicks together, Dean thinks vaguely that he’s been to Heaven and this right here – his stupidly beautiful baby brother – is still the best place he could ever hope to be. Sam gasps against him and Dean knows he overheard. 

They come at the same time, spilling hot and wet between them, soaking their underwear and making a mess of their stomachs. It’s heightened for them both, feeling each other break apart as well as their own release, and they can only cry out each other’s names and succumb to the perfect, heady feeling of being more whole than they’ve ever been before.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five** \---

_Dean is fidgeting. Everything is set. The BBQ is off, the food is on the table – looking damn fine, he thinks proudly – and he keeps straightening the tea towel hanging over the handle of the oven door or taking small, repetitive sips of his beer while he waits, leaning against the counter and drumming the fingers of his free hand on the edge of it. Any minute. He should be home any minute._

_As if on cue Dean hears the key turn in the lock and he looks over to the door as Sam pushes through it. He’s got a briefcase –_ a briefcase _– in his hand, he’s wearing a soft, rust-coloured sweater over a collared shirt and tie, jeans that make his legs look like they go on forever, and his eyes light up when he smiles back at his brother._

_“Dean, hey,” he starts as he toes off his shoes. “I figured I’d have to drag you out of the garage. Look at you all cleaned up.”_

_He’s loosening the knot at his neck and Dean would resent how good he looks right now except Dean’s the one who gets to keep looking so resent isn’t quite the right word. He feels his stomach flutter ridiculously – this is_ not _a big deal, it’s not dammit – and he hides it with a smirk as he walks over with a cold beer in hand. Sam takes it and, as he does, he instinctively leans forward for a kiss. It’s over in a blink, so chaste and routine even, but Dean feels it ripple through him nonetheless._

_“Thanks,” Sam says before taking a swig. Then he looks past Dean and a grin spreads across his face. “Dean– did you do this? For me?”_

_Dean feels his face get warm and bristles, tries to brush it off._

_“C’mon, Sammy. First day on the job– figured it was worth celebrating a little. It’s just dinner. Not a big thing.” Dean quickly makes his way to the table where the steaks and all the fixings are piled high on their plates just begging to be dug into. He puts his beer down on a coaster and deliberately avoids glancing at Sam because he knows the look that’s sure to be on his kid brother’s face._

_They’re quiet as they sit down. Dean can practically hear Sam thinking, trying to decide what to say – what’s okay to say – that won’t make Dean clam up about what they both know is a romantic gesture. Dean puts his napkin on his lap and finally sighs into the silence. Resigned, he looks up at Sam where he’s sitting across from him and–_ goddammit _why does he have to look like that?_

_“Dean,” Sam begins and his voice is strong but gentle in that way of his, the one that says he’s trying not to scare Dean away from what’s coming because Sam has decided it absolutely needs saying. He looks so fucking happy – it’s exactly what Dean wanted but he still can’t really handle being the one to make him look that way – that Dean’s chest aches and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat._

_“Thank you. Really. This–” he makes a sweeping movement with one of his giant paws, gesturing at the food, beer, and immaculate condition of their eat-in kitchen “–is a big deal, Dean.”_

_Dean lets Sam hold his gaze a moment before he clears his throat and looks away, reaching for his fork and steak knife._

_“Yeah, well,” he grumbles. “It’s gonna get cold. Less talking, more eating, Sasquatch.”_

_He starts to cut into his (perfectly cooked, if he says so himself) steak to the sound of Sam laughing and picking up his utensils to do the same._

_Sam insists on cleaning up after they’re done. He loads the dishwasher – seriously, whose life is this? – while Dean sits at the table, his feet up on Sam’s vacant chair, sipping his third beer and watching his brother tidy. It feels so foreign and yet there’s something knocking around behind his ribs; Dean’s felt flashes of it in the Bunker but looking around the innocuous, painfully normal surroundings of their house it feels fuller. Better._

_He realizes he’s been lost in thought when he looks up and Sam is leaning against the counter wiping his hands on the towel and watching Dean with a knowing smile. Dean rolls his eyes and tips back his beer, finishing it as Sam tucks away the towel._

_Sam walks up to him and taps his legs. Dean figures he’s asking for his seat back so he makes a lot of noise and dramatic protest at giving back Sam’s chair but instead, once his feet are back on the ground, Sam wanders into his space. Dean looks up – and up, and up – as Sam slides his hands onto his shoulders and along the curve of his neck, straddling him and settling on his lap._

_Dean’s arms snake around Sam’s waist and his hands start smoothing up and down his back seemingly without any thought on Dean’s part. Sam’s sweater is soft against his palms and Dean will take it to his grave but he loves seeing Sam dressed this way, the way he imagines Sam might’ve dressed if he’d gotten to live the life he went after all those years ago, except it’s so much better because they’re still together._

_Sam leans forward and his hair spills out from where he’d had it tucked behind his ears. It brushes Dean’s face when Sam kisses him. It’s slow and deep and tastes like beer, beef and_ Sam. _Dean just opens up, relaxes, and lets his brother in, lets him taste and take whatever he wants. After a long moment, they’re both breathing hard when Sam pulls back, just enough to talk against Dean’s spit-slick lips._

_“Dean,” he whispers. “Come to bed.”_

_Dean hums and kisses Sam in answer._

_“Dean,” Sam says again. “Dean.”_

“Dean, hey.”

Dean blinks awake. He’s lying half on top of Sam, his face smushed into his brother’s side, Sam’s arms are around him and his hands are skimming soft lines on his back. For a moment Dean is confused, the vestiges of the dream clinging to the edges of his thoughts and he gets flustered before remembering; last night they saved Sam. Sam is okay. Their souls are bound. They can feel– _oh!_

There it is – there _Sam_ is – like an echo: he can hear it in the distance but can’t make out the words exactly. He can feel the tone of them though, and Sam is giving off waves of love and affection so strong that Dean is a little startled, mixed with something like concern and– _shit_. Amusement.

“Were you–” Dean starts, his voice rough with sleep as he pushes back up on his elbows to give his brother a level stare. “Could you _see_ – what did you– _what’s so funny_?” 

He’s glaring at Sam now, his initial, personal embarrassment ratcheted way, way up at the possibility that Sam somehow saw his dream. He can feel Sam’s amusement fade away and his brother looks at him seriously, still with that kindness in his eyes and being the recipient of its intensity is almost enough, in this moment, to make Dean squirm.

“Nothing’s funny,” he says, his hands on Dean’s back pressing in, making sure he can’t get away. Dean shifts and can feel himself, half-hard at his waking, against Sam’s thigh and he– _ugh–_ he’s stuck to himself, come dried on his skin and underwear.

“We passed out.” Sam interrupts his thoughts and Dean’s eyes snap back to his brother’s. Sam isn’t just feeling what he feels but is _in his freakin’ head_. “Last night. At least, I guess we did. It was… intense. I’m having a hard enough time staying awake as it is.”

Dean can feel his brother’s persistent exhaustion, and he battles some internal panic for his own part as Sam talks but when Sam gets quiet again he feels it: Sam is anxious. It’s dark and big and Dean hates how it feels; he hates that it’s how _Sam_ feels. It’s all he needs to tamp down his own discomfort at Sam seemingly knowing his every thought; ‘big brother’ has always trumped everything else.

“It’s okay, Sam. Thanks.” He says it aloud even though he has the suspicion Sam would know if he simply thought it, too. The connection between them feels less… volatile this morning. Last night, at first, it was overwhelming and vague but that echo Dean is hearing is getting clearer and clearer as they lay together. 

As he musters up a small smile for Sam to back it up he can feel the anxiety fade, too. To see how clearly just a few words from him affect his brother in real time, Dean suddenly wonders how that means he’s made Sam’s life better or worse throughout the years, saying the wrong thing or obstinately not saying the right one. The panic is there again and this is so fucked up, feeling what he feels and what Sam feels, too. 

“Dean,” Sam tries to put a stop to the potential derailing of his thoughts and his voice is quiet and shaky. This is weird for both of them. Sam is a little unnerved, too.

“God, sorry, Sammy,” Dean mumbles and pushes up further to quiet them both with a kiss. It’s small and simple but the gesture seems to help them both focus and Dean is thankful for the ease in their physicality. When Dean breaks the kiss, they’re both calmer.

There’s a brief moment of peace and then as Sam opens his mouth, Dean suddenly knows what’s coming.

“Is that what you really want?” Sam asks, and Dean knows exactly to what he’s referring. Somehow the bastard had seen what he was dreaming, which it’s not like he even controls that and– 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam pushes, a little desperate, apologetic, exasperated. “I wasn’t trying to spy. I woke up and it– it was just _there_ . Clear as day in my head even if I closed my eyes. It felt more like _you_ were projecting at _me_. And I’m sorry, but… if you say it’s just a dream, I swear I won’t ask you again but… that’s not how it felt so… so I’m asking you. Is that what you really want?”

Dean watches the colours seem to shift in his brother’s eyes, the constantly changing greens-browns-blues of them a comfort even now as they sit quietly at what feels like a precipice. 

Before he knew Sam had been shot he’d made up his mind that it was, in fact, the only thing he wanted. Right now he’s faced with telling Sam about it for real, that after everything, after all of the times they’ve both tried and failed to live their lives away from hunting, away from each other, Dean _does_ want to walk away, sure that this time it can be different, because they won’t be alone. 

Dean studies his brother as he thinks about how he wants to answer, actively searches for how Sam is feeling, any hints to make what Dean says next the right thing. He can tell Sam is trying _not_ to think at all, clearly trying not to influence his emotionally skittish big brother. He can feel Sam’s hope but the question still remains – hope for what?

Dean worries his bottom lip between his teeth and finally sighs. 

“Yeah, Sammy. It is.”

It feels better than he expected it would to say it out loud, but Sam seems unsure and it puts Dean right back on that edge. 

“Sam, I–”

“Dean, you don’t have to say this for my sake.”

Dean blinks.

“What? Sam, I wouldn’t lie about–”

“I’m not saying you’re lying,” Sam cuts him off and looks away. “I’m saying I know you’ve always done whatever you thought you had to to make me happy. I’m _saying_ that you don’t have to _do_ anything to make me happy. I just… want to be with you. I don’t care what we do, Dean. Not as long as we’re together. And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that, and even longer to tell you, but you don’t have to do this for me.”

Dean watches the way Sam gets smaller underneath him, looking away, and feels the swirling echoes of all the things he knows Sam thinks about way too much, the things from before. It’s never been fair that he does that to himself; Dean has made his share of fuck-ups, too, had his share of self-loathing and guilt, but they already decided they’d started over, that all that mattered was that they were together. 

Everything inside is so tied up and Dean just wants it to all stop for a moment so he’s not so tangled up with Sam while he tries to make Sam see. Sam _has_ to see. Dean shakes his head and sits up a little more, waits for Sam to feel him insisting that he look. Sam’s eyes finally meet his and Dean concentrates on only how good it feels to think of them somewhere safe. He prays Sam feels what he feels, and that he’ll believe him.

“Sammy, it’s not like that. Yesterday I thought– we said goodbye, Sam. _Goodbye_. And then– it doesn’t even matter now. I’m still here, and you’re okay, and as soon as I realized I had another day I knew I was done. You’re it for me, Sam. You’re everything and… I am _done_ saying goodbye, okay? I’m done. We– we’ve earned this. I never thought– before I didn’t think– and then Jesse and Cesar… if they can do it, then dammit, Sam, we can, too. And I want to.” The _please, Sammy_ he doesn’t say aloud but he thinks it all the same. All the while, Sam’s eyes have been locked on his. He can feel his brother contemplate him, _feel_ him listening, and he wonders if this will ever stop feeling so bizarre. 

Dean can pinpoint the moment Sam has decided, has given in. It’s not long coming, really. Sam only looks at him in silence with those big, shiny doe eyes of his for a few seconds before his tentative smile spreads into something bigger and bolder and maybe a little giddy? Is that– _whoa, kinda bubbly_ – that’s all Sam. Sam starts to laugh at Dean, and Dean starts laughing, too – for his own part or because Sam is and it’s spilling over, he’s not sure, but he’s willing to bet on a little bit of both.

“Okay, Dean. Okay,” Sam’s mumbling as he reaches for Dean’s face with his big hands to pull him in and kiss him and they’re kissing but Dean can still hear him as their lips press together and part for their eager tongues. _Of course yes, Dean. How could I ever say no, you big idiot, just want you all to myself, just wanna be with you, Dean, yes. I can’t believe we’re going to do this, what are we gonna do–_

_Sam?_

Dean breaks their kiss, pulls back just enough to look his brother in the eye. They’re both panting and Dean is pretty sure the faint feeling of delirium is shared, too. 

_Dean?!_

Their eyes go wide as they both realize what’s happening; that echo? Not so much an echo any more. Sam’s voice is just as clear and easy to understand as if he’d spoken. Dean swallows thickly.

 _This… so this is a thing?_ Dean thinks and he makes a nonchalant face at Sam as he laughs a little. Sam is nodding absentmindedly, still a little breathless from their kissing.

“Is it just me, or has it all focused a bit more?” Sam says out loud and the sound is reassuring. Normal.

Dean squints and thinks about it. Everything seems a little more distinct. The emotions seem softer, in the background unless Dean concentrates on them specifically. Sam’s voice, however, is clearer than ever, though it appears to be only when intentional?

 _I can hear you,_ Sam interrupts. _Stop thinking at me._

 _Stop– stop_ thinking _at you? How exactly am I supposed to do that?!_

“I’m not doing this on purpose!” Dean adds out loud, frustrated. Sam sighs.

“I know but you have to. Do it on purpose, I mean. If you’re just thinking – it’s like I can hear all of it, like your dream. But if you decide to keep it to yourself– yes! Like that, see? You’re quiet now.”

Dean scowls at him. Sam _would_ be better than him at this right out of the gates. Typical. His freakishly quick little brother.

Sam’s face wears an answering scowl and Dean realizes he must’ve heard.

“I didn’t mean it like- I’m sorry, Sam.” _Fuck_. That word has always been touchy; Dean hates that it thoughtlessly slips in occasionally.

Sam sighs.

“I know, Dean. I don’t know why this is easier for me. I think maybe... you’ve just always been easy for me.” 

Sam can’t keep the grin off his face even though he tries. It’s a bit of a leer by the time the last words are done and Dean rolls his eyes and huffs even as he supposes that Sam’s right, of course.

“We seriously need showers,” Dean gripes as he shifts to sit and everything pulls uncomfortably inside his boxers. As he turns to look at Sam, he feels the wave of fatigue wash over his little brother, less aggressive for him than it had been last night but still strong enough Dean has to take a deep, steadying breath. _Sam–_

“You okay?” He asks aloud, mostly out of habit, but also because they seem to need more focus to communicate internally. Sam sighs, looking a little dazed as he scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Yeah, just–” He blinks deliberately as though to try keeping his eyes open. “So wiped.”  
  
Sam shifts in the bed and Dean sees him cringe while feeling the echo of his discomfort. 

Showers – they really must. 

“I’ll give you a hand, Sammy,” Dean means it earnestly but it turns into something more lewd before he even gets to his brother’s name, so he wiggles his eyebrows at Sam as he stands up. He likes how it feels when Sam scoffs at him, a half laugh, and he can’t help but grin at the sensation. 

Dean steps into his slippers and reaches for his pilfered robe, feeling his brother watching him, the affection there, and waits for Sam to chime in with a jibe, usually about wearing stuff that technically belongs to dead people. Instead– 

_You put it back on._

Sam’s voice sounds as tentative in his head as Dean knows it would be otherwise, like they haven’t already – also wordlessly – acknowledged that Dean is wearing the amulet. He turns to his brother as he ties the robe around his waist, forcing himself to meet Sam’s eyes. 

“After Cas told me what was going on with you, about the bullet and all the soul stuff.” He worries his lip. He’s not sure why it matters because Sam will hear him now either way, but the stuff that’s been hard to say somehow is easier to just think.

_Got me thinking about when we were running around in Heaven and what Ash said, before… before I tossed it. Sam–_

Sam huffs and looks away a moment and Dean can feel the spike of his brother’s emotion and that he’s about to cut him off, either doesn’t want to hear what Dean is going to say, or thinks he already knows, Dean can’t quite tell. 

_No, listen. I–_

“I was an ass. Angry and hurt all the time when if I took the time to see past that, I’d’ve seen that you were angry and hurting, too.”

Sam slowly turns back to face him, those eyes of his big and shining in a way that renders Dean a little stunned, just for a moment. He sighs before going back to thinking.

 _Our lives were so fucked up, Sam. And none of that shit was even our fault, all this friggin’ destiny crap and–_ Dean gestures vaguely with his hand to imply everything, everyone – _making it feel impossible for us to just_ be, _when there was no other way for us. For my part, I’m so damn sorry._

Sam smiles knowingly, both of them glad to not be in that place anymore. _I’m sorry, too_.

The moment is heavy with the weight of their love for one another and their sincerity, things they no longer need words to share, and Dean eventually bristles, clearing his throat. 

“Anyway,” he changes the subject and feels Sam laughing at him inside. He glares and tries to ignore it. “Can we please shower before you pass out and I have to give you a sponge bath?” 

Sam snorts. “Yeah, we can try.” 

Sam looks unsteady as he shimmies his way to the edge of the bed, and by the time Dean pulls his brother’s arm across his shoulder to help him stand, he realizes just how drained Sam is. 

Sam turns his head to look at him, with obvious effort, and holds on as tightly as he can manage. _This might take a while_ , he thinks weakly, apologetic. 

Dean is undeterred, and smiles back at him. _It’s okay, baby. We’ve got nowhere else to be._

\--- 

It does take significantly longer for them to get to the shower room than usual, with Sam moving very slowly and the many breaks they take to let him lean against the wall and recuperate. Dean is just happy his brother doesn’t seem to be in any pain – just seemingly zapped of all his energy. 

Sam is huffing from the exertion of the journey by the time Dean gets him propped up in the corner against the cold tile walls, looking apologetic as he lets Dean gingerly remove his underwear. Dean is crouching to slide Sam’s underwear down his legs and help him step out of them, and when he looks up at his brother, his eyes linger on Sam’s mostly soft cock where it’s right in front of him. He could easily take a knee and– 

_Dean_ , Sam laughs weakly, not surprised or reproachful so much as amused. _Oh my god, do you ever think about anything else?_

Dean grins, completely unashamed, and his smile turns vaguely smug when Sam starts to grow right before his eyes. 

“That– is your fault,” Sam whines, undermined by his own body, and Dean laughs as he stands up. 

“I’ll gladly take that blame, Sammy,” Dean leans in say into Sam’s ear, then kisses his brother’s cheek as he steps back and turns on the the two closest shower heads, the ones they always use, tilted so that the spray from each overlaps and they can both stay warm while they get clean together. 

As he waits for the temperature to settle where he wants it, Dean thinks he’ll miss this, the big, easy to share showers. Wherever they end up, if it doesn’t have it already, Dean’s first project is going to have to be learning how to make a double shower. Surely there are YouTube videos for that– 

“You’re really serious about this,” Sam says, a hint of awe in his voice and a fond feeling creeping in that startles Dean out of his thoughts. He blinks at his brother, having momentarily forgotten that Sam could be listening in, and purses his lips as he reaches to pull him under the water with a hand on both sides of him.

“Yeah, Sam, I said I was. Told ya I wasn’t lying–”

 _No_ , Sam cuts him off. 

“I mean,” Sam switches to speaking, thinking to Dean obviously more taxing for him at the moment, as his grip tightens to keep himself steady. They end up looking like teenagers at their first slow dance, Sam’s arms resting on Dean’s shoulders and Dean’s hands firmly gripping Sam’s waist. “You’re really going to build us a big shower.” 

Sam tips his head back just enough to beam at his big brother, giving it a little shake to get the wet hair out of his face. 

“Oh,” Dean flusters, blushing. “Well, yeah.” _It’s hard enough fitting you in a normal shower as it is, you friggin’ giant. I’m giving up hunting, not shower sex._

Sam laughs outright at that, but his knees wobble and Dean feels the sympathetic weakness in his own legs. Sam drops his forehead to Dean’s shoulder and Dean wraps an arm around his brother’s back while sticking the other out to brace them both against the wall of the shower. The water pours over them as Sam clings to him, and Dean wishes not for the first time that Sam didn’t weigh so much. 

_Hey,_ Sam’s voice interjects, but even in Dean’s mind he sounds worn out more than offended. 

“Maybe this wasn’t a great idea, kiddo,” Dean admits as they stand there, but Sam gives his head a feeble shake. 

“No, it’s okay, I’ll be okay,” he takes some his own weight again to prove it, and tentatively Dean gives him a little more space while keeping at least one hand on him at all times. He reaches for Sam’s shampoo and they go back to slow dancing while Dean works the suds into Sam’s hair, a little awkwardly with one hand but it’ll do. He does his own hair the same way, and he can feel his brother’s conflicting emotions all the while, apologetic for making things difficult, mildly embarrassed, but safe enough to allow it, and a part of him delighting in being cared for. There’s a thrill in the familiarity of it, the way it makes Sam think of when they were both so much younger, and how sometimes he’d play up or pretend being sick just because Dean was always so hands on when he was taking care of him. 

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean whistles low, impressed and a little awed at his kid brother’s manipulation. When Sam realizes Dean has been sorting through his thoughts, he buries his face all the more into Dean’s neck, groaning. Dean doesn’t need to see it to know Sam is blushing, feeling the heat echo in his own skin. They’re both a little hard from Sam’s nostalgia and Dean’s fire is stoked all the more to know how far back Sam’s want for him goes. Theoretically, they both know they’ve been like this a long time, since they were way too young. They’ve talked about it before, but seeing it now inside Sam’s memories, seeing how needy his baby brother was for every touch– Dean’s soapy hand on Sam’s side is suddenly less gentle. He digs his fingers in just to keep from reaching for Sam’s dick instead. 

_Do it, Dean, please_ , Sam’s voice rings out desperately and Dean can feel the open-mouthed, lazy press of his brother’s lips to his collarbone.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean growls, stepping forward to press Sam’s back to the wall while reaching down to take his brother in hand. “This is your fault.”

He tosses Sam’s words back at him as he gives him a squeeze, and they both shudder and groan before Sam can respond, with words or otherwise. Dean can feel Sam get harder against his palm, and as he takes his first tug, Dean’s own knees tremble at the sensation. He can _feel_ what Sam’s feeling, like a phantom hand on his own dick, when there isn’t more than the sluicing soapy water on him. 

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes. “Hold– _shit_ – hold on to me, Sammy.” 

Sam changes his grip, fumbling to get his arms wrapped tightly around Dean’s neck. Once he’s secure, his arms locked in place, Dean shifts, too, widening his stance to better support them both, the hand not on his brother’s cock open and pressed against the wall to better stabilize them. 

Dean lets his fingers adjust to accommodate the swell of Sam’s dick, feeling both the slippery wet, smooth skin of Sam’s shaft and, oddly, the rough, calloused feel of his own hand. It’s trippy, and as he finds an easy rhythm and just the right pressure, Dean is less and less sure where he ends and Sam begins. 

Sam’s breath is loud and broken near his ear, his brother gasping, choking on the steamy air and water inescapably pouring down his face, and Dean’s own breath comes in short, panting for the effort of holding them up on top of the sensations that are almost too much. Sam moans aloud but Dean is bombarded with Sam’s internal pleasure, too, not sounds so much as echoes of his own, extra sparks and rushes of electric heat that run like an undercurrent to how good he already feels. It makes Dean dizzy and he knows he’s making obscene sounds now, a little wild, out of control, but there’s too much going on for him to think about fighting the impulse. 

His own hips jerk as an echo of the pull of his hand, fucking nothing but air, and as he quickens his pace on Sam’s dick he feels Sam getting close. Whether what he’s feeling is _just_ an echo of his brother or not, Dean knows without a doubt this will be enough for him, too. It’s as if every synapse in his body is shaking with anticipation, building up with Sam, even though Dean’s cock still swings between their bodies in time to the furious movement of his arm. Dean can’t string together the thoughts to even begin to wonder when this last happened but he knows it deep in his bones, he’s about to come completely untouched.

“ _De–!_ ” Sam wails and his arms tighten around Dean’s neck as his whole body clenches. Sam is spilling warm over his hand and Dean can only cry out, an anguished, inarticulate sound, as his body does the same and he’s coming, too. It feels like nothing else Dean has ever experienced, something he can’t put into words. As their orgasms subside in time, Sam’s body gets heavier, and while Dean is wrecked by his release, the reality that Sam is bearing less and less of his own weight means Dean doesn’t get to bask in the intoxicating feeling very long. 

“Shit– Sam–” Dean scrambles to catch his brother, his hand mostly cleaned from the shower, not that it matters now. He grips at Sam’s sides with both hands, and steps in to try and trap Sam’s body between his own and the wall. He’s keeping him up but it’s awkward and Sam’s not getting any lighter, instead going fully limp. Dean hears nothing when he listens, and he quickly moves to slide Sam safely to the ground before dropping him. Still not fully recovered himself, panic makes his breath stay short as he crouches in the open vee of his brother’s sprawled legs. 

“Sam? Sammy, c’mon,” Dean tips his brother’s face up but his eyes are closed, strands of hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks, water running down the slope of his nose. _Fuck, this_ was _a terrible idea._

He gives a few less than gentle taps to Sam’s face. In other circumstances, Dean would be gleefully getting ready to gloat for being just that good, but right now Dean is more concerned with the fact that his brother was likely not in any shape to be showering, much less what they got up to. 

_C’mon, kiddo,_ Dean pleads, and he can feel Sam start to stir before he opens his eyes. He finally blinks up at him, lashes thick and clumped together with water, looking completely worn out as his vision clears and Dean comes into focus. 

Sam smiles when he feels the wave of Dean’s relief. 

“Can you imagine…” Sam starts weakly, then switches to thinking, worn out but not enough to stifle the shit-eating grin. _...death by handjob?_

Dean snorts, sitting back and dragging a hand across his stubbled chin as the last traces of worry disappear. Sam leans his head back against the tile, letting the water wash over him, and Dean smirks at him through the spray. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”  
  
It’s Sam’s turn to snort then but he doesn’t look at him. _You would love that,_ he thinks, and Dean feels his amusement and fondness even as his brother struggles to stay awake. 

“Okay, Sasquatch,” Dean starts to stand, reaching to shut off the water. “We’re definitely done here. Back to bed for you.”  
  
 _‘Kay, Dean_ , Sam nods lazily, and when Dean reaches for him, a fresh towel wrapped around his waist and another open to envelop his little brother, Dean knows it’s going to be a long, difficult walk back to their room. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six ---**

It doesn’t take as long as Dean worried it might to get Sam tucked back into bed. His brother is barely conscious during the journey, and Dean is privy to a myriad of vague feelings and thoughts as Sam drifts, worn out but safe and feeling good, a wisp of the idea that when they have their own place – _not_ the bunker – they can really have just one room, not a second for show. It makes Dean feel fond as he watches Sam settle and fall properly asleep, his thoughts getting quiet. 

He watches Sam a moment, feels better for the way his brother’s face relaxes, then pulls the door shut behind him as he leaves, heading for the library. He turns the corner and when he looks up, Cas is standing there. 

“Jesus,” Dean startles, and narrowly misses suppressing the urge to glare at their feathered friend. “How many times, man?” 

Dean chastises him, exasperated, and sits down in front of his laptop. 

“Sorry,” Cas rumbles, and Dean can tell he’s not really, but he can’t help but smirk a little at the thought of how far Cas has come. 

“I wanted to check in. How is Sam?” Cas continues, moving to stand across the table from Dean. 

“Sam is… good, yeah. He’s seriously wiped, but he’s not in pain so,” Dean looks over the computer screen at Cas when he answers. He feels… strange. Sitting there, nothing’s wrong, but there’s a kind of… pulling, a tug of urgency in his gut, nothing he can’t ignore if he tries, but it’s definitely there, vaguely unsettling.

 _Huh_. Dean leans around the computer and forward to reach the bottle of whiskey they last abandoned on the table. He grabs the closest left-behind coffee mug, looks inside to check it’s empty apart from the telltale ring of dried black coffee at the bottom – his then – and pours a generous shot only to down it in one burning mouthful. 

Cas watches him with narrowed eyes, then pulls the chair out from the table and sits down. “And how are you, Dean?” 

Dean hisses, deliberate and low as he puts the mug back down and looks at Cas again. “Me? I’m fine.”  
  
“Dean, it’s not even ten in the morning,” Cas says by way of explanation, glancing at the whiskey, and Dean opens his mouth to argue but Cas keeps talking. “And Sam is okay. He just needs rest and then you’ll be back on the road, fighting monsters like always.”   
  
Dean bristles. _Cas_. He hadn’t even thought – what are they going to tell him? When he finally meets Castiel’s gaze, something must show on his face, because Cas immediately looks concerned. 

“What is it, Dean?” He asks quickly, thinking hard. “Is it– your connection. Is it making it difficult for you to be even this far away from your brother?”

Dean is about to try and dissuade him, assure him it’s nothing, but then what Cas suggests makes him stop. 

“Oh,” Dean says as it dawns on him that Cas is right – that’s what that is. “Uh, no, not difficult, actually. Just… weird.” _Huh_. 

Knowing makes it even easier to ignore, at least at this distance, but Dean is still left with the question of what he’s supposed to say to Cas about their plan. 

“That’s good,” Cas responds, but he sounds unconvinced. “There’s… something else?”  
  
Dean looks at him soberly before deciding it’s best to just get it over with. 

“Yeah, Cas, there is,” Dean admits, then shifts in his seat, pulling the screen on the laptop down so Cas knows he has his attention. “About getting back on the road, actually.”

Cas raises one eyebrow but says nothing, giving Dean the chance to continue. 

“It’s just– after everything we’ve been through… this shit with Amara? The end of the fucking world? _Again_? We…” Dean makes himself look at him. Occasionally misguided, Castiel has still been there for them longer than most, and sacrificed a lot for them in his own way. “We’re throwing in the towel.”

Castiel’s eyebrow drops and he looks confused for only a moment before Dean lets out a chuckle. 

“ _Retiring_ , Cas. No more hunting.” 

Castiel’s eyes go wide but the surprise doesn’t linger long, replaced with such a genuine smile that Dean realizes he can’t remember the last time he saw it. 

“After all this time, you still surprise me, Dean Winchester,” Cas replies, and when he says Dean’s name, there’s a hint of the angel before, before their friendship, the one that’s existed so much longer than Dean usually remembers. “I’ve wanted this for you, but I never thought you would get there on your own. Hunting is who you are but it’s not the _only_ thing you are.” 

Dean baulks. “You wanted us to quit hunting?”  
  
“Yes,” Cas says earnestly. “You and your brother have prevented the Apocalypse, saved the world from Leviathans, angels and demons alike, and now the sister of God. You and Sam have both suffered great loss and trauma in the pursuit of good. You have done more than enough. It’s long past time to hang up the Michael sword.” 

Dean blinks at him, surprised for the easy support given by their closest friend. “Thanks, Cas.”  
  
As they smile at one another a moment, Dean is struck by how much it means that they have someone who understands. He knows God is a piece of work and Castiel isn’t perfect, but between his and Sam’s soulbond and this announcement, Dean feels absolved. He expected guilt, so much tying him to this life, duty and responsibility, but instead he feels new. He’s _excited_. 

“What will you do?” Cas asks, and there’s a playful glimmer of interest in his eyes. 

Dean laughs, more than he means to. “I have no idea.”  
  
“You have some time to figure that out while Sam recovers,” Cas surmises. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I came in here to start researching, actually.”  
  
Cas nods, understanding. He stands and Dean watches with a sad feeling growing in his chest.   
  
“I will leave you to it,” Cas smiles. 

“Uh, Cas, wait–” Dean stands, too. “What will you do?”   
  
The smile on Cas’ face grows, so fond, so far from the way he regarded them in their first meeting, fierce and unforgiving. “I’ll be fine, Dean. I’ve spent more time on Earth in this past decade than all the millennia I’ve lived before. This was never going to be my forever. And this isn’t goodbye, friend. You’ll see me again. That’s a promise.”

Dean nods and Cas approaches him from around the table. 

“It has been an honour,” Cas extends his hand and Dean has to resist the urge to slap it away. _Idiot._ Instead, he laughs, a little wetly, and pulls Cas into a firm hug. 

“I thought you said this wasn’t goodbye,” Dean points out.

“It’s not,” Cas reassures him. “But the sentiment felt appropriate.”   
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean smirks. “Likewise, Cas.”   
  
Cas beams at him, nods once more, and then disappears amidst the familiar flutter of feathers. 

\---

Sterling, Colorado.

It’s not a big city but it’s big enough to have opportunities for them – bigger than Lebanon, not that that’s difficult. It’s also only about five hours away – four, if Dean’s driving – which Dean figures is important just in case. Of what, he’s not sure, but it feels right. He doesn’t think they’ve ever worked a case there, either, which is a surprisingly appealing element. Of course, he’s got to sell it to Sam, but he’s had Sam in mind while he looked. Their school board is one of the most highly regarded in the state, and there’s an opening for a high school Latin teacher. Dean worked all manner of odd jobs growing up, so he’s not worried about being able to find work for himself, but Sam will need something more, something fulfilling. _He’d make a smokin’ hot Latin teacher_. Dean grins lasciviously to himself at the mental image of his brother at the head of a classroom and adds scribbles to his notepad, including the application deadline and what the requirements are – things he’ll have to forge to add to Sam’s resume, if he wants it. 

He hums Van Halen’s _Hot for Teacher_ as he pours over Sterling on Google Maps, absentmindedly adding shops and other amenities to his ‘pros’ list. Sam’s been sleeping, resting mostly, enough that Dean has almost gotten used to the way it feels. Sam’s subconscious is less focused than his waking mind, the thoughts that Dean picks up more abstract than the now clear way they tend to communicate without speaking. When he’s actively dreaming, sometimes Dean finds it helpful to distract himself, since the barrage of blurry images and emotions can be overwhelming and disorienting. So far, it turns out simply being in the library helps somewhat, even just that physical distance between them acting as a buffer, but the trade off is a low-level sense of discomfort, like a nagging feeling at the base of the brain that won’t shut off. It makes Dean vaguely concerned about what affect greater distance will have, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. 

Dean can sense when Sam wakes up, the way the general _feeling_ of him becomes somehow crisper, and Deans smiles to himself. It feels nice, Sam’s growing consciousness, and Dean can picture Sam opening his eyes, what he’d look like with his hair all mussed from sleep. 

_Morning, Sleeping Beauty,_ Dean thinks, fond when he feels Sam respond to him.

_Is it even morning?_

Dean shrugs. _It is for you._

Dean likes how Sam’s chuckle feels, like a ripple. He almost laughs, too, like an echo he can’t quite get a grip on, simply bubbling up from his chest. If he pays attention, he’s vaguely aware of Sam’s movements, getting out of bed, taking himself down the hall for a piss and to brush his teeth, the usual routine. He does find though, with a little deliberation, he can tune it out for the most part. Surely with practice it’ll get easier. 

Dean busies himself by making a fresh pot of coffee, and when he returns to the library with two mugs full, Sam is standing at one of the book shelves. He’s still healing but it’s so good to see him standing on his own two feet now, getting around on his own. He’s got one hand on the weathered spine of an old tome, a soft look in his eyes, and a mess of emotions that Dean feels tangle with his own. 

Dean has all this information on Sterling that he was going to share with Sam but watching his brother look so fondly at their surroundings makes Dean hesitate a little. 

“You know, even if we quit hunting, we could always stay here,” he says it aloud as he makes his way to the table, trying to ground the interaction in their voices and the familiarity of speaking, and he lifts Sam’s coffee in his direction as if to beckon him to come sit as well. “We could be real friggin’ hermits and live underground where no one will find us when we eventually die.” 

“Dean.” Sam gives him an amused, level glare as he follows him, sitting down in his usual chair and taking his coffee with a silent gratitude that pleasantly warms Dean’s chest. 

“I’m kidding. I just…” Dean knows Sam can likely feel what Dean is trying to say, can see it in the sharp, smart focus of his eyes from the other side of the table, but they still have to talk about this, and this is how Dean knows to do it, even if he does flounder with the actual words sometimes. “I know you love this stuff, Sammy. You’ve barely scratched the surface of all the lore in here.” 

Sam chuckles softly. “Dean, if we’re not gonna hunt, we need to leave this stuff behind. And I don’t need the bunker, or the library.” 

He extends a coffee-warmed hand across the table and Dean bristles against the emotion rising up behind his eyes, feeling the way Sam loves him extending past his outstretched hand and the tips of his long fingers. Dean clears his throat and gives his little brother the hand he’s asking for to hold. 

_Not if I’ve got you_. Sam thinks it at him loud and clear, unmistakable and pure, true, and even though Dean can’t quite put it into words, he lets Sam in, lets him feel what his brother’s love does to him, lets him feel how great and overwhelming his own love for Sam is in return. It’s always scared him a little to admit how fiercely he loves his brother, but Sam doesn’t back down, not deterred despite feeling the full force of it now through their bond, only giving it right back. 

“We’ve got a little bit of work to do, if we’re going to do this for real,” Sam says, giving Dean a rope to grab and pull himself from the tide of their combined emotions. 

“Yeah, guess so,” Dean agrees on a deep breath, letting everything settle back into something calm and manageable. “Though that’s kinda what I’ve been doing in here. Wanna know what I’ve got so far?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Sam smiles, dimples deep and eyes bright. “Let’s hear it.”

\---

Dean’s internal clock has been off since he returned to the bunker, and being underground doesn’t offer much in the way of natural daylight to help rectify the situation, but he’s been dreading leaving Sam, if he’s being honest about it. So he’s stayed inside, never far from arm’s reach, and when supplies reach critical levels, then they’ll cross that particular bridge. In the meantime, Sam is sleeping a little less every day and Dean sleeps whenever he feels like it, wrapped around his brother’s body.

When he’s awake, Dean is packing their accumulated belongings into boxes and filling the Impala’s back seat. They still don’t have a lot, not by any means, but spending the last few years in the bunker has allowed them to hold on to a few more things than ever before, things Dean has started thinking about having in whatever new place they end up, in their _home_. If Sam’s awake, Dean still won’t let him help with the packing. He’s on mandatory bedrest, Netflix and recover. But he’s getting better, Dean can tell. He can feel Sam getting restless, and Dean knows he won’t be able to keep him in place too much longer. Which is all well and good, but Dean is only too happy to take care of him, especially when everything here is starting to feel like a collection of ‘last times’ as Sam continues to get better. 

Dean’s not always sure who wakes up first anymore. With their consciousnesses tied together now, it’s a strange sensation to wonder if he was already awake or if he became so because Sam did. Regardless, Dean is comfortable where he is, and while Sam shifts and stretches where he lays alongside him, Dean simply wraps his legs and arms more tightly around him, pulling him close and buries his nose in the mess of Sam’s hair, tangled and sleep warm and smelling faintly of sweat. He hums as he breathes it in, and kisses lazily at Sam’s neck.

Sam makes an audible sound, muffled and unintelligible, but Dean hears it in his head. 

_Dean_.   
  
It’s languid and happy and Dean feels it all the way down to his toes. And _other_ places. 

He hums again and rolls his hips, rubbing himself against the plush resistance of his brother’s ass. 

“Dean,” Sam tries again, aloud this time, still muffled but clearly trying to get Dean’s attention.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean answers against Sam’s nape, unhurried, his lips brushing Sam’s skin and his hands sliding up Sam’s front, one pausing over Sam’s chest. He was already half hard at waking up but the slow drag against Sam’s backside and the feel of Sam’s stiffening nipple against his palm through his shirt make Dean shiver and get even harder.

“Gotta piss,” Sam grumbles, and starts to move as if to untangle himself from Dean’s limbs, but Dean just holds on tighter.

“No, later,” Dean argues, pressing his hips harder forward while holding Sam to him. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whines. _Now_. 

Then, as if Sam suddenly decided to share it, Dean feels the sharp, empathetic twinge in his bladder that makes him clench up and groan unpleasantly. 

“Alright alright, Jesus, go.” He relinquishes his hold on his brother quickly, as much for Sam’s sake as his own now. _You weren’t kidding_.

“Nope,” Sam gets out of the bed, sparing a grin in Dean’s direction before he makes a hasty exit. 

The incessant pressure in Dean’s bladder eases up as soon as Sam is up, clearly a small mercy on Sam’s part. Dean sighs and stretches out on the bed just because he can, rolling into the centre with his face on Sam’s pillow. He takes a deep breath, all Sam, and relaxes into their mattress. He can pinpoint the moment when Sam is pissing in the bathroom down the hall, his relief palpable all the way from here. 

_Feel better?_ He teases, smiling, eyes still closed. 

Sam doesn’t answer right away, nothing specific, though Dean can feel his acknowledgement. Then, _Dean, is this the last roll of toilet paper?_

Dean’s eyes open. _Uh…_

There’s a rush of thoughts, remembering that they were getting low, feeling guilty for not having done anything about it yet, Sam being the one to notice– 

_Dean, it’s fine. We’ve been a bit preoccupied. It’s not the only thing we’re getting low on, is it?_

Dean rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully. _We need toothpaste, coffee, bacon, maybe–_

 _A lot, I get it,_ Sam interrupts him, laughing. _I kinda want to go into town? I mean, I’m feeling up for it. And we need a test run for some distance._

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like it. It should be him doing the supply run. Sam’s still getting his strength back and what if their bond doesn’t really allow for them to be that far apart? They don’t know what’s going to happen–

 _Stop mother henning me!_

He can hear Sam’s laughter now, his brother making his way back to their bedroom, and Dean looks to the doorway.

“Dean.” Sam appears at the threshold, shaking his head and wearing a fond expression. “I’ll be fine. I am fine. I can still feel how tired you are. Go back to bed. Let me do this.”

Dean glowers at him. “Cheater.”

He is still tired. He stayed up late getting the documents together to submit Sam’s job application, determined to cross that off the list once he started it. 

_Thanks for that, by the way_ , Sam pauses with one arm in the sleeve of his t-shirt to lean down and kiss Dean’s forehead. 

Dean bristles even if he not-so-secretly-anymore loves the gesture and rolls his eyes. 

Sam chuckles. “If you don’t want me to hear you, try harder.”

“Shut up,” Dean groans and rolls onto his side, putting his back to his brother and tugging the blanket back up over his shoulders.  
  
More laughter as Sam finishes getting dressed, and Dean mentally grouses over how much better Sam is at keeping him out of his head while deliberately shutting his brother out so he doesn’t hear it.

  
“There you go. Just like that,” Sam encourages, obviously getting some quiet now that Dean’s thinking about it, and Dean just grumbles and pulls the blanket up even higher.

  
“Just go away already,” he mumbles, and then Sam’s hand is on his hip as he leans over to plant another kiss at his temple. 

“It’s gonna be fine. I won’t be long,” Sam says against the side of his face, finally standing up when Dean huffs at him. Truthfully, he’s a little worried about how this is going to feel, being so physically far apart, and everything seems easier to face when he’s being grumpy about it. 

Sam leaves, and he’s not even out of the garage before Dean feels uncomfortable. 

_Don’t forget the bacon_ , he tosses out, just to know he can still be heard as much as anything.

 _Got it, Dean_ , Sam shoots back wryly, and Dean forces himself to take a slow breath in and out. It’s going to be fine. 

Sam drives away from the bunker and it doesn’t _hurt_ but it’s weird enough to make him squirm a bit against the mattress and huff, breathing deliberately to will his body into submission. 

He didn’t anticipate he’d actually fall back to sleep given the unnatural and unsettling feeling of being so physically distant from Sam but he must’ve, because he jolts awake with a gasp, doubling over and wincing. Whatever discomfort this was that he could sleep through before it’s built up into something he can’t ignore. The sharpness fades as he wakes fully but it’s like a hot ache underneath his skin, just starting to cramp his muscles. 

“Shit,” he hisses, and works on finding a steady rhythm with his breath. _Sam–_

 _Yeah, this stopped being bearable about five minutes ago_ , Sam answers quickly, and even in Dean’s head he sounds similarly pained. _I don’t think it’s just about distance between us but also the time that passes_.

 _Great,_ Dean snaps. 

_Hey, we always knew this was going to have a learning curve. I’m heading back now– yes, I grabbed the bacon_.

Dean still manages to chuckle because he’d barely had the thought himself but Sam still heard. His next breath is easier, and Dean has a realization – the discomfort might actually be somewhat muted while they’re actively engaging with one another. 

_Hey, does this feel a little less shitty when we’re brain yapping like this?_

_Yeah, actually,_ Sam agrees, sounding pleased and less strained. There’s a shared sense of relief between them. 

Dean can’t see through Sam’s eyes but he knows when he sits down in the Impala, the way Sam’s emotions change to be there, the reassuring creak of the metal frame, their first and always home, the familiar smells, and that she’s going to bring them back together now. 

Dean lays back on the bed and sighs. _Hurry home, Sammy._

Sam doesn’t answer him, just lets him feel that he understands. If Dean meant to say that teasingly, it came out dangerously earnest instead, something he knows he can’t hide from Sam now even if he wanted to. Which, refreshingly, he finds that he doesn’t.

His whole life he spent holding back, first altogether, and then even once they became more to each other Dean spent years waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Sam to wake up and realize what a fuck up it all was – that _Dean_ was – and while recently he’s learned to trust them more and more, now that Sam is letting him see – Dean is really, honestly at peace. 

He sighs again, the cramping faded now, whether in part to their communication or Sam’s impending arrival or both, and Dean slides his hand down the length of his body, finds himself a little hard. Wrapping his fingers around himself feels good, grounding, so he doesn’t think twice about it. 

The familiar way he stiffens against his palm is a decent distraction from the lingering discomfort, but Dean’s not in a rush, so he keeps the pressure light and the strokes slow and lazy, just hiding in the way the soft pleasure competes with the tension of Sam’s absence. 

On the next upward pull, he lets his thumb catch under the head of his cock and rub there. His mouth parts on a silent intake of breath and when he exhales– 

“Sam.” It’s a barely there whisper but it’s habit, his mind always wandering to his brother when he does this, Sam’s hands instead, his long capable fingers, or Sam’s mouth, his pretty, pink lips. He’s always needed him, and now he has him more than is even humanly possible but somehow it just makes the need that much sharper. 

_Dean–_ the feeling of Sam’s surprise brings a smile to Dean’s face. _Dean, are you_ jerking off _?_

 _Mhm_ , Dean answers, shameless, and keeps stroking himself, even reaches his other hand down to tug at his balls, opening and splaying his knees. _Feels good, Sammy, do you feel it?_

Dean’s not sure he’s cultivated much in the way of walls against his brother yet, but now he deliberately projects, willing Sam to feel what he feels. 

When the breath catches in Sam’s chest, Dean’s does as well. 

_I, uh,_ Sam’s thoughts pause as he clears his throat, and Dean can sense him shifting in the seat. _I started to get hard, didn’t realize right away…_

Dean hums, lazily nodding against his pillow, and the tension fades a little more as Sam gets closer to the bunker. Dean sighs and squeezes himself a little harder. 

_Dean, Jesus,_ Sam laughs, startled and breathy even in Dean’s head.   
  
Dean likes the sound of it, of Sam, and he’s never shied away from what feels good, so he isn’t about to now. Instead, he just keeps projecting at Sam, everything he’s feeling, and his thoughts.   
  
_God, Sammy, need you here, little brother. I’ve been dying to know how this feels when I fuck you_.

There’s a flare of arousal Dean feels like an echo, Sam’s shaky need and sharp intake of breath that feels like fire catching in his veins. Sam’s own thoughts are the same, that curiosity mingled with want at the thought of getting fucked, feeling it inside and out somehow now that they are the way they are.   
  
_Yeah, baby boy, just like that,_ Dean continues, encouraged by the similar turn of Sam’s thinking and his attention. _Bet it won’t take much for either of us like that, gonna be like the first time all over again, shit. Gonna make you come from just my dick, just you wait, fuck–_

Dean groans, the pleasure of it overwhelming his words and his hand slipping into that fast and furious pace that means release is close. 

_Oh god, oh god,_ Dean _, I’m trying to– fuck_ , Sam curses, and the frantic, wrung-out sound only speeds Dean on, makes him hotter, harder, and then he’s coming with a grunt. It devolves into a long, drawn-out moan as he spills over his hand and splashes onto his stomach, body taut in the throes of it, and it just– _keeps going_. 

“Goddamn,” Dean pants, writhing against his sheets, completely at the mercy of it. He’s going practically dry now, nothing really left, but he’s still – _Holy_ shit, _Sam– did you come? Are you– shit, you’re-!_

 _Dean_ , Sam whines, long and nearly anguished as he finishes, and Dean’s body finally lets up, both of them heavy in the afterglow. 

Dean melts against the bed while still holding himself loosely, sated and a little smug, before remembering that Sam had been driving.

_Sam–!_

_It’s fine,_ Sam cuts him off, breath still heaving. _I’m parked. I made it to the garage._

Then he chuckles and adds, _barely._

 _Shit_ , Dean laughs. He’d say sorry, only he feels fucking incredible, and considering that Sam came, too… he shrugs languidly to himself. 

_You’re unbelievable_ , Sam scoffs, though there’s zero heat to it, and really, neither of them are surprised. 

_Did you touch yourself at all, Sammy?_ Dean wonders as he lets himself go, gently squeezing up to collect the tacky come onto the ring his hand makes around his softening length. 

_No,_ Sam sends back. _And I still came in my fucking pants like you were sitting here wringing it out of me_. 

Dean’s grin is huge. He’s absolutely delighted with himself at this development. _Better come here and get cleaned up then_. 

He can feel Sam rolling his eyes, and it makes him laugh. 

If Dean didn’t want to get out of bed before, he _really_ doesn’t want to now, still loose and a little high in the aftermath. He wiggles the fingers of his hand as he lays there waiting for Sam to join him, watching the come stretch between them and pull on his skin before sighing and starting to lick it off. He cleans off the back of his hand with one broad drag of his tongue then sucks each finger into his mouth one by one. More often than not it’s Sam’s when he does this, but he still gets hot flutters in his gut at the bitter taste and slick feel of it in his mouth, his dick twitching weakly against his stomach, and it’s only helped by the fact he’s aware of Sam approaching their room down the hall.

When he looks up at the door, thumb still in his mouth, Sam is standing there looking back at him, and neither of them are surprised. Sam is shaking his head with a fond smile, but there’s a darkness in his eyes and a heat in his gut that only confirms for Dean everything he already knows about them both. He grins again, teeth light on his own skin.

“God, you’re a fucking menace,” Sam says as he enters the room, climbing onto the bed and reaching for Dean’s wrist. _How do you get anything done in a day being horny like this all the time? You’re gonna kill me with this._

Sam pulls Dean’s finger out of his mouth and pushes his hand, shiny with his spit, down to the bed as he gets a knee on either side of Dean’s and leans forward to kiss him. It’s filthy, come still in Dean’s mouth, but Sam moans and parts his lips immediately, so Dean doesn’t hesitate, he would’ve known it was what his brother wanted even if he wasn’t getting the sloppy assault of Sam’s thoughts _give it to me, Dean, c’mon_.

He pushes the mouthful out with his tongue and the sound Sam makes into the kiss makes Dean’s hips itch to move, his dick starting to get hard again.   
  
_Fuck, Sammy,_ Dean reaches up to hold his brother’s head, his fingers threading through his hair, and angles them so he can better lick into Sam’s mouth and chase what he’s given up, even as Sam swallows some down. It’s messy, the frothy mix of spit and come they’re sharing, and Dean almost can’t believe how turned on he is right now, how ready to go again so quickly – still? – because his brother is fucking _hungry_ for it. 

_Could practically taste it in the hallway with you licking it up in here,_ Sam’s tone is accusatory but he sounds too wrecked even in their thoughts for it do anything besides make Dean grin smugly against his lips. 

“Like how I taste, Sammy?” Dean teases, and Sam doesn’t do it but it _feels_ like rolling his eyes.

 _Ugh, shut up_. 

Sam starts stripping out of his shirt, not letting up on his onslaught of Dean’s mouth, and Dean is actually surprised, only too happy to suck hard on the tongue Sam is giving him but he was not expecting this intensity from his brother. 

_You’re unbelievable_ , Sam scoffs, meanwhile fumbling to get his arm out of his sleeve, moaning at the pull of Dean’s mouth before giving Dean a shove to break the kiss and finish undressing.

“You lay about in here, get me off like a fucking– echo or something– it’s so damn good– and you think I’m not–” Successfully naked now, Sam crashes their mouths together and keeps going. _If you think you’re getting out of fucking me right now, you’re out of your mind_.

Dean groans, both for Sam’s suggestion and the way Sam is kissing him, manhandling him so Dean has to lay all the way back down and Sam follows, slotting their hips together, both their hard lengths trapped between them.

As if on cue, while supporting himself with a hand in the mattress, Sam’s shoulder twinges and he winces. Dean feels it distantly in his own and looks up at Sam, concerned. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” he says softly, tucking some of Sam’s hair back behind his ear.

Dean is laughing before Sam even opens his mouth again, feeling Sam’s indignance and stubborn rejection of Dean’s worry. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insists, even as he sits back and rolls his shoulder only to have it ache. “Maybe just…” he huffs.

“Alright, alright,” Dean leans forward to kiss Sam quick. _Lay down on your stomach_.

Sam’s sigh is loud as he shifts to let Dean up, but he does as Dean suggests, sliding his arms up and under the pillow, turning his head to watch as Dean grabs his pillow to slip under Sam’s hips. 

Goddamn but his brother looks good laid out like this, all the warm, golden skin against their sheets. Dean hums appreciatively. _Like I ain’t gonna make this worth your while, kiddo. C’mon._

Sam squirms under Dean’s attention – Dean loves how it feels, that Sam is sharing it intentionally or otherwise, his anticipation and the way Dean’s focus gets him hot – but he melts when Dean rubs his palms up the back of Sam’s thighs, cups his ass in two big handfuls, then gives his right cheek a quick smack. 

Sam grunts, though not completely caught off guard, and as his hips grind into the pillow at the pleasure-pain of it the sound morphs into something else, long and drawn out and good. Dean shudders at the faint ripple of heat he feels across his own skin and grins before doing it again, the sound of his hand against Sam’s skin punctuated by Sam’s shuddery whine. 

Dean gently smooths his palm over the fading red shape of his hand on Sam's ass, humming for the way Sam softens under him at the touch. This part is always such a push-pull, too much, not enough, too hard, not hard enough – a delicious tease to work them both up right until the moment they can't take it anymore, and Dean can bury himself inside his brother's body. Just thinking about it makes him jittery with anticipation. Now he rubs at Sam's cheeks, kneading a little before he eases them apart. Sam's hole clenches at the exposure. 

"Easy, baby boy. Relax for me," Dean purrs as he leans down, kissing the skin of Sam's backside warmed by the work of his own hands, gentle in sharp contrast to the previous sting.

 _God, Dean_ , Sam pleads as Dean keeps kissing him, nipping and licking at the firm flesh of his ass, his hole still exposed but woefully neglected. Dean can feel the way he yearns for it, to be touched there, stretched and filled, and the desire is so strong that Dean loses his resolve to torture Sam any longer. 

He noses in along Sam's crack, the smell of him warm and musky and secret, then tips his head up and kisses at Sam's hole. The feel of the flexing ring of muscle against his lips is like the flint of Sam's want catching fire, and Dean is suddenly struck with overwhelming hunger for his brother. He slides back down the bed to drop into a better position between Sam's legs and licks up Sam's crease with a groan-turned-growl. 

_Fuck, Sammy_ , Dean kisses him again, open mouthed and sloppy, getting Sam wet, then wiggles the tip of his tongue at Sam's opening, easing inside as Sam relaxes. It's completely trippy, tasting and feeling the familiar clench but also that echo of what Sam feels, practically shouted at him through their connection because Sam is less than capable of keeping it to himself. 

It makes Dean moan, knowing so certainly how Sam thrills at this, wants Dean deeper, _more, Dean, please_ ; Dean's own dick throbs and leaks into the sheets, and his hands itch to reach for himself but he can't stop holding Sam open, making room for his face, so he absentmindedly ruts into the mattress instead. 

The way Sam tastes is enough to make him want to suffocate chasing it, heady with the unwavering intimacy and the lack of air, and Dean knows Sam is hearing him for the broken sound he makes as he cants his hips back, pushing against Dean's tongue as if to take him in even further. 

Dean finally lets up, gasping for breath, his nose and chin shiny with spit, and Sam's skin glistening with the same, and he's there, can't wait another minute.

 _Dean, please_ , Sam reaches back with his hands and looks over his shoulder as best he can to see Dean's face as he holds himself open in invitation. It's a punch to Dean's gut, white-hot heat at the sight of his brother's stretched open and slick hole, dark in the centre where Dean belongs. 

_Fuck, you got no right lookin' so good, kiddo. You're killing me._

Dean fumbles to his knees so he can reach for the lube in the nightstand drawer.

“Then hurry up old man,” Sam tosses back, breathy, deliberately provocative, and Dean baulks, playing right along, though he admittedly loves the badgering and back and forth between them in addition to the echo of Sam’s amusement.

“Old man?!”

Dean tosses the bottle of lube onto the bed behind him and uses his clean hand to give Sam a hard smack on the ass. Sam hisses even as he laughs, knowing full well he earned it – Dean knowing full well it's what he was gunning for, talking shit like that. 

Dean slicks himself up quick, wastes no more time getting into position, and leans down with one fist in the bed, lining himself up with the other. He's dripping he's so revved up and ready to experience this now with their connection, but he can't help pausing where he is to drag it out. 

"Ready?"

Sam groans in response, says Dean’s name in his mind long and drawn out and desperate, and Dean can only smile, appeased and smug. 

Dean presses the head of his cock to Sam’s hole and already the intensity is jarring, the pressure building until the ring of muscle gives way, Sam’s body swallowing him down as he pushes all the way in. Dean breaks out instantly in a sweat all over, his body too hot, panting, almost squirmy with the too-much too-good of it all, being buried inside and somehow feeling the fullness as well, the heat and grip of Sam’s walls but also the stretch and the pressure in his gut. 

“ _Oh my god,”_ Dean exhales in a rush. 

“Fuck, Dean, _fuck_ ,” Sam sounds like he might cry for it, overwhelmed, and Dean isn’t far off. He can feel the way Sam needs him to move, needs to move himself, but–

_Sam don’t, stop, fuck, wait just a sec, I can’t–_

“Christ,” Dean bites out, trying to remember how to breathe, make it slow and deep, in and out and shivery because every nerve in his body is awake. 

Sam stays still and Dean is vaguely aware of how difficult it is for him to do so, practically vibrating beneath him with the need to move, but if Dean didn’t reign it in this was going to be over _right now_. 

Once he finds some calm, Dean lets out a shaky sigh. “Okay, Sammy.”

Sam does let out a sob then, the relief palpable even for Dean as they start to move their hips, Sam less so but just enough, Dean drawing out and sliding back in. 

“ _Oh my god,”_ he says again, immediately mindless for how it feels, and Sam whimpers, high and broken as if Dean has already been fucking him right to the edge. Whatever stamina they’ve built up over the years, this bond between them is bringing them right back to teenaged first times, and Dean would be able to tell even without it by the frantic rush of Sam’s breath and his white knuckles in the sheets that neither of them is going to last long now. 

Dean fights the urge to pound relentlessly into his brother for as long as he can, but the stakes are too high, his brain quickly ceasing to function outside the steady onslaught of pleasure. Before he knows it, he’s snapping his hips in that quick and hard rhythm to take them both over the edge, Sam letting out a broken sound with each rapid thrust, a beautiful litany to echo the endless repetition of _Dean_ that Sam can’t think past as their inevitably shared orgasm builds. 

They trip the finish line together, their bodies impossibly in tune since the spell, and Dean trembles with the effort to stay upright as the tension breaks, spilling inside Sam and feeling it in a way he never has before, everything made new for the way they feel it all, the physical walls between them barely there as they come, riding a wave of ecstasy that could never be explained, only known here, like this, in their shared soul. 

Sam melts underneath him, heavy and lax with the toll of it all, and Dean tries to be gentle as he lays down on Sam’s back, gasping in his ear and letting his exhausted muscles relax. 

Sam hums at the weight of him like a hot, sticky blanket from head to toe, and Dean feels it in every way, the rumble of it in Sam’s chest through his back to Dean’s where they’re plastered together, and the echo of the connection as if he were humming himself. It’s warm and soft and pleasant, and everything is buzzing, a little like being in that sweet spot, drunk but not too much. 

_Fuck,_ Dean thinks, and even that is work, he’s so completely and thoroughly wrung out. 

_Yeah,_ Sam agrees, feeling just the same. _Holy shit_.

 _That’s gonna take some getting used to,_ Dean admits with a weak laugh.

 _No kidding,_ Sam agrees. _I mean… seriously, holy shit._

 _Yeah_ , Dean laughs a little more, because honestly what can he say? It’s surreal, all of it. He starts to kiss at Sam’s shoulder now that he’s got his breath back for the most part, and then with a near-Herculean effort, he rolls off, slipping out of his brother easily for the mess and the way he’s gone soft. 

On his back now, he catches his breath again and Sam shimmies over so he’s cuddled up to Dean’s side, snaking one arm around his waist and tucking his face in at Dean’s shoulder. 

“I know we should clean up but…”   
  
“I can’t even be bothered about the wet spot, I don’t think I can move,” Sam offers.

 _Yeah exactly,_ Dean agrees, hugging Sam to him and settling into place with no intention to move again any time soon. 

He doesn’t even realize they’re drifting back to sleep until he wakes up an hour later. 

Or when Sam wakes up, whichever. He’s still not sure. 

_Morning,_ he sends Sam as he stretches, groaning for the way certain things are stuck as he rolls onto his back to give them each a little space. 

Sam laughs. _You mean afternoon_.

 _Hey, not quite yet. Don’t rush the day away, Sammy_ , Dean checks his phone as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing at the back of his neck with his other hand. 

He feels pretty gross, considering, and he’s a little achey from being in bed so long. It is definitely time for a shower.

“Dean?” 

Sam’s voice has a tone to it, tentative, quiet, and Dean can feel the way Sam is trying to keep some distance between them inside, which is perhaps the more alarming part. Dean turns to look back at his brother where he’s lying on his side and looking up at him.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

Sam chews his lip, his eyes darting around the room before coming back to settle on Dean’s.  
  
“You’ve done quite a bit of packing while I’ve been resting up.” 

_Oh_. “Uh huh. I mean, not like we’re taking a lot with us but. Yeah.”

There’s a pause and Dean finds himself reaching between them, both with a hand to lace their fingers together on the sheets, and with their connection, to search for more clues as to where this is going, what Sam is thinking. 

Sam’s expression softens. _Relax._

Aloud he says, “so… are we ready?”

Dean is surprised by the way his gut jumps at Sam’s question. The few boxes of carefully chosen items are already in the Impala. All they need are their clothes, which they’ve been used to packing up basically their entire lives. They are ready, Dean knows this. And this is that he wants – what they want – but strangely, it feels… weird. Dean has grown fond of this home they’ve made for themselves here. He’s never left anywhere he’s had a chance to become attached like this. Now that Sam’s question makes it real…

"It's not like we'll never ever come back here. We are its keepers after all.” Sam reassures him, and Dean finds himself feeling calmer for whatever Sam is sending him. He sighs. 

“You know, I thought you’d be the one all twisted up about this. You’re surprisingly chill.”   
  
Sam smiles. “I just... I’m ready for this, Dean. With you."   
  
Dean can’t help but grin back at that. His conflicted feelings fade in the shadow of it, and he basks in all the love Sam gives him instead. He leans down to kiss Sam’s forehead, then quickly kiss his lips. "Yeah, Sammy. Me, too. We’re ready then."   
  
Sam squeezes Dean’s fingers where their hands are intertwined, and Dean feels a refreshing sense of excitement to do this, to be together like this, to live this way. 

Their heartbeats seem to be in sync now, since the spell, and Dean doesn’t know if that’s because of the bond or he’s just able to feel it better now, but it’s a welcome thing, soft, solid, and reassuring underneath everything else. As they look ahead to this new chapter, there’s a lot Dean isn’t sure about, but none of that matters as much as the one thing he _is_ sure about – and that’s them. 


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue ---** _(a handful of years later)_

It’s not completely unusual for them to get the occasional phone call on an old cell they keep charged for that very reason. When they left the bunker, Sam had quietly put the number out to the few hunters they still knew or were in touch with. After all, the bunker’s resources were extensive and even if Sam and Dean were tapping out, there would always be others. 

_Ah, ha! Found it. Be right up,_ Sam thinks to him, and Dean is glad to hear it. 

The filing system means it’s never too difficult for Sam to track down the lore they’re looking for. Dean drums his thumbs on the steering wheel while he waits in the car. Oddly, the thought of going back down those stairs is harder for Dean than he imagined it would be, and this way he can keep an eye on things. He hears Sam before he sees him – feels him before even that, their connection normal and easy as anything now – the weary creak of heavy metal and the slam of the door disrupting the otherwise quiet. They both breathe easier as soon as Sam steps onto the road, steps back into view and into close enough proximity that undoes the subtle tension thrumming in their bodies at the distance between them, and he’s got two dusty old tomes clasped in one of those big hands of his. 

The books rest between them on the bench seat as they drive to the drop off point a couple hours away. They might be sharing resources but they’re still not keen on the bunker’s location being broadcast for all to know, so it’s better this way. The sun is shining and the sky is clear and Sam is next to him, so Dean doesn’t mind one bit. Bob Seger plays low from the tape deck and after a little while Sam’s hand reaches out to rest on the books, fingers waving to catch Dean’s attention. 

_Dean_.

 _Yeah, yeah, Sammy. I got you._ Dean shifts the angle of his body in his seat so it’s comfortable to give Sam his hand, letting their fingers thread together. Sam looks away out the window as Dean glances at him but Dean can feel him smiling nonetheless. 

_Sap_ , Dean teases. Sam huffs.

 _Whatever,_ he shoots back. _Don’t pretend I can’t tell how much you like it, too._

“You know it,” Dean says aloud, soft, giving their hands a gentle shake to get Sam to look at him. Dean likes how Sam feels when he has his eyes on him like this, likes knowing how happy Sam is just to have this easy touch. 

_Now who’s the sap_ , Sam accuses him and it only makes Dean grin all the more.

The hunter they’re meeting is a friend of Garth’s, a guy they came across once or twice back in the day. He’s already waiting for them in the Gas N’ Sip parking lot, leaning against his truck and waving as Dean eases the Impala into park. 

“Joey, hey,” Dean says as he walks around the hood of the car, one hand raised in a quick wave. Sam comes to stand beside him, books in one hand while he waves with the other.

“Sam and Dean, good to see yas,” he nods, tips his trucker hat by the brim. “How’s the quiet life?”

Dean grins, can’t help feeling proud about getting out. Once upon a time he might’ve felt guilty, couldn’t have dreamed it would’ve ever felt right, but here they are, and it really does. 

“It’s great, gotta say. Layin’ low, keepin’ out of trouble.” Dean shrugs.

 _Brag about it why don’t you,_ Sam thinks wryly, and Dean feels the eye roll Sam doesn’t actually do. 

“I found some pretty solid information in these books,” Sam redirects the conversation before Dean can say anything else, holding the books in question out in front of him for Joey to take. “There’s more than one spell in here that should do the trick for you.”

“Aw, man, that is great news, thank ya. We’ve been real stumped.” Joey happily takes the books, and as he does, the sun glints off the gold band on the second finger of Sam’s left hand, pressed flat against the book’s cover.

Watching Joey’s eyes lock on Sam’s ring, Dean instinctively flexes his own left hand into a ball at his side, not that it hides anything when Joey next looks at Dean and immediately drops his gaze to that clenched fist.

  
Sam shifts back into place beside Dean once Joey has the books, a vaguely questioning look on his face, and Dean barely even registers the little space between them. This close, with their bond, they might as well be shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. Sam’s body is like an echo of his own, and the spike of anxiety that immediately causes his heart to race feels _almost_ like it’s happening to Dean, but they’ve lived with this long enough now that Dean isn’t as rattled by it. He steels himself against Sam’s emotions and reaches out to place a steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder, his ring clearly in view, staring at Joey all the while, practically daring him to say something about it. 

“I knew it, I gotta tell yas,” Joey actually laughs with the visible release of tension as he starts talking, and Dean’s confusion mingles with Sam’s. “I told Garth – more’n once, God’s honest truth – that you bein’ brothers was just a cover. I’m sorry you felt you had to leave the life to be yourselves but good for you guys. I’m happy for yas, truly.”

Sam is flushing deeply, Dean doesn’t have to look to know it, and though he’s standing still the nervous energy pours off him in waves, the uncertainty of what to say, how to possibly respond to that. At the same time, there’s something oddly welcome about it, Joey’s easy acceptance and total lack of surprise, so Dean blinks, a little flustered himself, but manages to clear his throat and mumble out a reply. 

“Uh, well– yeah, thanks, Joey, that’s–” Dean nods, appreciative. “Thank you. Best of luck, huh? You know how to get us if you need anything else.”  
  
Joey smiles back at them earnestly, and Sam’s relief bubbles in Dean’s chest, makes him bold. Dean slides his hand from Sam’s shoulder down his arm to thread their fingers together between them before Joey has even turned away from them. He waves as he makes his way back to his truck, Sam and Dean standing hand-in-hand watching him go. 

As the truck pulls out of the parking lot onto the road, Dean squeezes Sam’s hand and turns to face him, already knowing what’s coming – with or without their soul bond.

  
“ _Dean_ ,” Sam chokes out, blinking back moisture at his eyes. God, his baby brother has got to be the most beautiful person alive, even now. Especially now.  
  
_Dean!_

“Hey!” Dean chuffs, then laughs, shaking his head. “You weren’t supposed to hear that part.”

Sam sniffs and Dean brings his free hand to his brother’s face, uses his thumb to wipe away the first tear. _Like you don’t already know_.

Sam presses his face against Dean’s palm, closing his eyes and he brings his hand on top of Dean’s, holding it there. Right now, Dean is grateful for the strange connection they have. If this had happened before, he’s not sure what they would’ve said. He doesn’t know what to say, not really, and he can tell Sam doesn’t know what to say either, but he feels the gist of all the things he considers, all the ways what Dean just did affects him, and how loved Sam feels in this exact moment. It’s the best damn thing. 

“I completely forgot about taking them off,” Sam says when he opens his eyes again and Dean lets go of his face. 

“Nah, it’s better this way,” Dean counters. “I’m done caring. Done hiding. You know that. I made you a promise when we got these. That doesn’t change, not for anyone or anything.”  
  
It hadn’t been anything fancy, not really. They didn’t have a ceremony or do anything official, but Dean had found them at an old flea market, weathered and in need of a little polish, and they’d just felt right, especially since they’d already decided not to give anyone the wrong impression about them when they first came to town, making it clear that they were a couple right from the start. It’s been a few years now but Sam still has particular swells of emotion whenever he thinks on them, and Dean would be lying if he tried to say they didn’t make him feel a certain kind of way, too. 

Instead of saying anything, Sam simply kisses him, right there in the Gas ‘N Sip parking lot. 

_I love you, big brother._

Dean grins against Sam’s mouth. _I love you, too, Sammy._

Aloud he says, “Let’s go home.”

  
**The end ---** **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are love <3


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